


Exile

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Action, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Enhances original, Canon - Fills plot hole(s), Characters - Friendship, Characters - Good use of minor character(s), Characters - Outstanding OC(s), Characters - Strongly in character, Characters - Well-handled emotions, Plot - Bittersweet, Plot - Can't stop reading, Plot - Fast moving, Plot - Good pacing, Plot - I reread often, Subjects - Culture(s), Subjects - Legends/Myth/History, Subjects - Military, Subjects - Politics, Writing - Clear prose, Writing - Engaging style, Writing - Evocative, Writing - Foreshadowing, Writing - Well-handled PoV(s), Writing - Well-handled dialogue, Writing - Well-handled introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-17
Updated: 2002-06-25
Packaged: 2018-03-23 08:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3762027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

The Rangers are hard to see. I never thought that I would be one of them, among the ruin of their ancient seat.

My ancient seat. It still feels strange to call it that, and so far I never have where any of the others can hear me.

Deadmen’s Dike, the Bree-folk call it now. It used to be Norbury, to the common Men of Arthedain, but the Dunedain still call it Fornost, as they always have. As we always have. Folk in Eriador now think it deserted, a barren heath where no men go, save those who flee from civilization.

This whole place has a sort of otherworldly feel about it, on the edge of the populated North. The older Rangers say that is Angmar, the still tangible Shadow of the Witch-King who killed so many of their forefathers. My forefathers. Hard to believe that this place was once the center of a living government, where a people lived and laughed in times of peace. The whole place fairly moans with an unbearable loneliness, as if the very jagged stones cry out in pain for something they cannot name. There is a grandeur here, but a remoteness, too, that might grind down the strongest will of any man alone here, and the ghosts of those who fell defending them linger in every hollow. The Shadow of the Witch-Kingdom still presses too close about these hills, and the ghosts do not confine themselves to darkness here. Here they walk abroad under the plain light of day. We do not see them, but all of us can feel them. The air is saturated with the sorrow of those who were here before us, foreboding worse for us if we remain.

This was once a seat of kings, but whatever honor and dignity is left here is too incalculably high and remote for any to touch, descendants of Numenor though we be.

The old king’s seat stands alone at the top of the highest hill, made of chipped gray stone, and the wild athelas springs from cracks in its base. None now go near it, though we live in sight of it. I have never sat in it, though it must be my birthright, and I doubt any of the others would object if I did so. The ordering of the scouts and the planning of forays may go to the older men, men experienced in the hard reality of warfare as I am not yet. But to sit in the ancient seat is a symbolic right, one granted only to the heir of Isildur, and however young or inexperienced I might be they know that Elrond would not lie as to my blood.

There are barely two dozens of us here, most of them much older than I. Of the few who are nearer my age, most have traveled in the Wild for several years already, and are far more familiar with this land than I. I have traveled in wild areas with the sons of Elrond, but always far to the East of where the Dunedain of Arnor usually traveled, and I had seldom been gone from Rivendell more than a fortnight. Even the lads my own age knew the customs and lands I was supposed to one day defend better than I did.

It was one thing to learn from Elrond my foster-father that I was a prince in exile, an heir of kings I thought had died out centuries ago. In the House of Elrond Halfelven, who himself is as old as the first king of Numenor would be were he yet living, such a title had meant little more than the end at last of the questions that had plagued me throughout my childhood. Questions of my lineage, my house, my father’s deeds, things that allow a young man to find some root in this world. And it was a joy to me to discover that my house was indeed high and noble, higher than many of the houses of the Edain in Middle-earth, that my lineage had not been hid from me out of a desire to spare me shame, that my father had died well and been beloved by all who knew him. Such things are of utmost importance to a young man growing up, especially growing up surrounded by Elves who are of much more noble birth than any Man were he Beren or Turin himself.

To present myself and my knowledge of my house to others of my own kind, dour Men who have little time for leisure or lore or song as found in Rivendell, men who had served my father for many years of bitter war but knew nothing of me, was something else entirely.

It was not that I feared they would doubt my claim, and they did not. Nay, I feared more that they might accept me as who I said I was, and that I would be expected to live up to their idea of what their chieftain and the son of their chieftain should be. That I should do as they had done from the cradle, unsheath my sword and not sheath it again until we regained our ancient kingdom or I perished. This was the oath of their people, of my people, of their fathers and their fathers’ fathers through all the generations since they had served the heirs of Elendil. This was the trust for which my father had died, for which they had bled, for which they had watched sons and brothers and friends fall. For which they endured long partings and uncertain lives, no permanent homes, protecting the common folk who no longer gave them fealty.

And here came I, a young scholar of barely twenty years, learned in the lore of Rivendell and the ancient tongues, knowing a little of combat but nothing of the pressures and miseries of a lifelong war in the wilderness. Raised in seclusion by Elves, surrounded by music and song and learning, sheltered in light and warmth while others had fought the battles to protect the kingdom that belonged to me.

Born to their people, yet I knew next to nothing of their ways, growing up surrounded by another race. By what right did I come to take that which their blood and sweat had preserved?

If these things were in their hearts they did not speak them aloud. Still I felt my presence was an intrusion on something sacred, something which I had not yet begun to understand as they understood it.

I knew what they expected of me. One day I would lead them, when I was old enough and had enough battle experience. Their first loyalty, their first and only duty, was to my house, to the reestablishment of the house of Isildur in the North and the restoration of my throne.

Could I match their devotion to me? Could I hope to be as committed to this hopeless war as they had been for generations? Could I give my life over to this fight, and think nothing of bloodshed and hardship and separation from all those I loved?

They do not know the real reason that I came here, what finally prompted me to go to Elrond and tell him I could no longer dwell in peace in his house when my people were at war. He accepted the noble intentions I claimed, and gave me his blessing, but he at least knew what is in my heart.

But there will be no choice before Arwen my beloved, unless you, Aragorn Arathorn’s son, come between us and bring one of us, you or me, to a bitter parting beyond the end of the world.

It was only a day since he spoke those words that I left. He cannot have thought it a coincidence.

And now, for the first time in my life, I truly belong nowhere.

She is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers.

Will there ever come a night when I can sleep without hearing those words repeated in my head? I could not stay in Rivendell any longer, not after those words. Arathorn of the Dunedain is my father and I honor his memory, but Elrond I love and know, and he has treated me as his son for many years. But I am not his son, and whatever affection he might have for me, it seems there are lines I may not cross and yet keep his friendship.

Why, oh, why, if it were as impossible as he claims, did he not bid Arwen stay in Lorien till I was far away? Ten years hence I would have been in the Wild, fighting with my kindred, even if nothing had happened in Imladris to drive me out. If I am “but as a yearling shoot” to her, it must be that one so long-lived would think nothing of ten more years apart from her father.

If only Elrond were as Thingol, and Sauron of Mordor held some treasure that could satisfy him. However impossible it might seem, if there were only a Quest I could undertake, some deed I might perform, as Beren did once. If only I were as Beren, unburdened by duty to family or kin or to a forgotten throne, free to abandon everything and risk my life for love alone.

She is too far above you. And so, I fear, it will seem to her.

Alas that the good will of Elrond will avail nothing if her heart is not changed. She knows nothing of my feelings, of that I am sure. Yes, she speaks with me, walks with me at times in the woods of Imladris. But such is no more courtesy than she would extend a kinsman from afar, and that is indeed all she counts me, and as such perhaps she may love me. But that is no comfort.

I can sense that they still do not know quite how to treat me. Elladan and Elrohir would have ridden out with me to introduce me to my kin, but I refused their offer. I wished to present myself as I am, alone, without any Elvish lords to back up my claim. Also, I do not know how much they know of my feelings for their sister, and if by them I have forfeited the love of my brothers as well I do not wish to know it yet.

I met my first Ranger at Bree, in the common room of the Prancing Pony. I don’t know how it was I recognized him, as no one else in the room seemed to think he was anything special, but somehow I felt a flash of something the first time I laid eyes on him, as of an old friend who has been long away. It was the first and so far the last of such feelings I have gotten since I left Rivendell, but it is all I have to comfort me, to try to convince myself that I truly have come home. He was tall, though there were others in that room larger than he, and it seemed he was known in this place, for he sat near the center of the room at ease, long legs outstretched in front of him, as he stared at the fire.

He did not speak, but he seemed to be listening attentively to the chatter going on around him, and there was a sort of half-smile on his face. No one seemed to remark him as anything unusual, and he smiled and nodded as comments were addressed to him.

I watched him for a long time, conscious suddenly in this rustic town of my raiment, which though stained from many days of travel was still made by Elves in the house of Elrond, and did not exactly fit with the rough wool of the Bree-folk. The cloak I wore was of dark green and had belonged to my father once, kept by my mother for many long years since his death, but beneath it I wore the soft gray that the Elves travel in.

Perhaps it was this that made the Ranger look up when I walked in, but aside from that one glance he seemed to pay me no mind, as I sat at a table near the door. I made a motion to the innkeeper, who waved a young boy of maybe eight or ten over to my table.

“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asked, staring unabashedly at me until I began to wonder if I had got my sword fastened on upside-down.

“Dinner,” I said curtly. “Something hot. And something to drink.”

He bobbed his head and disappeared into the crowd, slipping adroitly between two large men as I took out a pipe. I had not smoked much before leaving Rivendell, but in the weeks since I had left I had found it something of a comfort in the Wild. Though expensive, as I had heard from the few settled areas I had passed through that the best pipeweed came from far West in the Shire of the halflings, and it was often hard to come by.

I finished my dinner quickly and was nursing my second tankard of ale when the common room hushed, and a voice was raised in song. I looked up to see the Ranger now in the center of a circle, standing and singing without accompaniment in a voice that was rough but not unpleasant.

But could it not have been any other song he sang, than the Lay of Tinuviel? It was a much abridged version, translated into the Common Speech, but the tune was the same as I had once sung it in Rivendell, and before he finished the first line I rose from my seat and moved quickly toward the door, throwing a few coins on the table as I left.

I did not want to think of Rivendell, not here, so far from all I knew, and I especially did not want to think of Arwen. Strange, how a simple melody can lodge in one’s head, and how vivid are the memories of the times and places that accompany it! I could see myself once again in the woods behind the house of Elrond, watching as the lady of whom I sung appeared before my very eyes . . .

I could still hear his voice, the rough baritone carrying even outside the doors of the inn. This, I thought, in an attempt to subdue my emotions with cold reason, proved beyond a reasonable doubt that the man was indeed one of the Dunedain—few others would know such a lay in this land. Few others had use for songs of Elves, or counted the history of Beren and Luthien important, save those of their distant kindred.

Perhaps it was a blessing she did not know of my feelings. Though how she could have missed it I do not know, especially as I had played such an incredible fool at our first encounter. Running after her, calling out Tinuviel! Tinuviel! As though I were Beren son of Barahir himself, and not a barely grown boy new-come from his first battle.

Some sense warned me a second before the wooden doors swung open, and a second later I noticed that the music had stopped. The Ranger was now carrying a pack, and I could see the sword that hung at his side. The scabbard was worn and scratched, and the hilt was dulled from many years of use. He stopped as the door closed and looked at me with a faint smile, and I tried to recapture that feeling of familiarity that had struck me when I first looked at him, but if we were kin from afar I no longer sensed it.

“I hope I did not offend with my song, Master—“

“Es—“ I stopped, looking down at my boots in confusion. I was no longer Estel of Rivendell, I realized. This man was of the Dunedain of the North, and it was to find them and declare my true lineage that I had left. “I am called Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” I said simply.

He peered at me sharply for a moment, dark green eyes narrowed in disbelief, then a look of respect came across his face. “Son of Arathorn!” he said softly. “Aye, thou art Arathorn’s son indeed. Thou hast the look of my kinsman and my chief.”

“I have come from Rivendell,” I said, feeling somewhat awkward. I had come to find the Dunedain, and I had found them. Now I was unsure what to do next. What little I knew of the Dunedain was their role as protectors of the North from orcs and other such foul servants of the Enemy. Did I ask to be taken to their leader and offer my service wherever I could be of use? Or would they assume that I had come to take command of them all? I had no knowledge of the country or the threats, and in my current ignorance would be a disaster in command of the entire region.

“We had heard you were there,” he replied. “Although I did not know how old you were. Halforth is my name, son of Hithlim. I served with Arathorn many years. He was a valiant man.” There was great respect in those eyes, although I could not tell what portion was for me and what was for my father’s memory.

“So my mother has told me,” I said. “I am in my twenty-first year, and have just learned his name. I have come seeking my own kin.”

“You have found them,” he said, and his weathered face smiled, and it seemed that years of care fell away only for a second. He embraced me, kissing me on both cheeks. “Welcome home, my lord.”

I essayed a brief smile, but could think of nothing to say to this. Standing in front of this rustic inn far to the West of everything I had ever known, having found at last that which I had sought, I wanted nothing more than to close my eyes and find myself back in Rivendell. I wanted to sit in the Hall of Fire with Elladan and Elrohir, and talk of the adventures we could find in the valley of Imladris. I wanted to sit in Elrond’s study and feel the warmth of his approval and love as he told tales of his youth and exploits in the First Age. I wanted to sit in the woods behind the house and watch the stars, and wait to see if Arwen would come.

But there was no fire here, no Elven halls or music, and it was only by renouncing that which my heart held most dear that I could keep the regard of Elrond and his sons. There was only the inn and the forest around it, and the dirt track winding into the pines. It was getting on to night, and the Evening Star twinkled in the fading blue above the horizon.

“Engroth has filled the post of chieftain, since you were gone,” Halforth said as he turned toward the stable. I followed him, turning my back on the Evening Star and resolving to gaze no more on it tonight. “He commands the guard at Fornost, and if he is not there, those who are will know whither he has gone.”

Fornost. The name was familiar, but . . . The ancient seat of Arnor, I reminded myself. It would do no good for the so-called chieftain of the Dunedain to arrive with no knowledge of their sacred sites.

There was no escaping the fact that I knew much too little of the organization and activities of the Dunedain. When Elrond had first told me of my lineage and my duty, it was assumed by Elrond at least that I should not leave Rivendell until I had gained more experience in combat with Elladan and Elrohir, riding with the guard of Imladris against the orcs of the Misty Mountains, and I would be introduced gradually to my own kin when now and then companies of the Dunedain would accompany us. He had never intended that I should leave Rivendell of a sudden as I had done—as I had wished to do when he first told me of my father and my ancestors. Indeed, it had been my intention to leave Rivendell within a fortnight, and Elrond’s to try to prevent my departure.

That was before Arwen.

What power is it in a woman’s eyes, in an Elf-woman’s eyes more than any other’s, that makes the most reckless and daring of untried boys abandon all thoughts of adventure and long only to sit in peace by her side, and listen to her voice? Indeed I wonder that Elrond did not see what was in my heart earlier, from the abruptness of my decision to remain in Imladris longer.

What little I learned of the Dunedain during those months, though, was from my mother, and she could tell me little of military movements and the ways of their men at war. All thoughts of war were chased from my mind, and Elrond was surprised and pleased at my sudden desire to learn more of lore and foreign tongues which I had had scant patience for throughout my childhood.

When my lessons were done I would go out to the woods where I had first seen Luthien walk, and I would try to focus my mind on my books, studying halfheartedly as I waited for her to appear. I told my mother that I liked the quiet of the woods at evening for studying, and at first she did not question me further. I would sit beneath an elm tree with a book propped open on my lap, and when the sun went down I would lie on the grass and gaze up at the Evening Star until I fell asleep.

Some nights she would come, and I can still hear the sound of her gentle laughter.

“My father may believe you are studying, but I know better. Unless you have the eyes of a cat to read in the dark!” I would laugh and cast the book aside, and beg her not to tell Elrond I was not as diligent as he believed.

It was a few weeks before I got up the courage to tell her that my study of ancient tongues would be made much easier by a companion with whom I could speak them. She had no suspicion of what my heart hid, but having a gentle and generous nature agreed to meet me several times a week, that we might converse in ancient languages on such subjects as the weather and the doings of Elrond’s household. Never have I applied myself so to the study of any books, and indeed Elrond was so pleased that for a little while it did not occur to him to be suspicious of my sudden hunger for knowledge, that I had once thought deadly boring.

When finally Elrond learned what I had tried to hide from him, he did not seem angry, only sad. But he did not try to prevent me from leaving the next day. No word was said to try to convince me to stay, not by him or by his sons—or by Arwen. Only my mother tried in vain to dissuade me, in fear, no doubt, that I would die as my father had. She knew as well as Elrond why I wished to leave.

“Do not cast your life away in recklessness or in bitterness,” she warned me. “You will find a wife one day, one who will stand by you as I would have stood by your father, one of your own people. No mortal man who looks on Arwen Evenstar could fail to desire her, but such is not true love. You will see, my son. I would not have you risk everything for an illusion."

Her words cut me more than any of Elrond’s ever could. I knew, of course, why she said what she said, and I even recognized that she might not even believe the words herself. She loves me, and she would say anything to keep me from peril. She knew only too well the anguish of losing those she loved to war’s cruel necessity, and I was indeed all that she had.

But any who have ever loved another with their whole heart at a young age will know the pain I felt at my own mother’s dismissal of my heartfelt emotion as only a childish infatuation. Elrond might have condemned me for my temerity, but the very gravity with which he treated the situation, and my obviously changed position in his eyes left me in no doubt that he believed me sincere. And much as that change hurt, I was grateful that he did not treat me as a child.

I had been here but a week and so far had done little of importance, besides sitting in my appointed post to watch the North road. For hours on end I would sit, my father’s heavy cloak wrapped tightly around me and my knees drawn up to my chest so that I looked like part of the surrounding green, save for my face. No one had told me what I was supposed to be watching for. “Anything and everything unusual,” was all Engroth said when I asked him. So far I had seen nothing, save the vague outlines of the hills of Carn Dum on the horizon, and those stood motionless amid the mist, shrouded in their ancient mystery. It was not a job I relished, for it left me entirely too much time to sit and think.

To think, and to wonder. To wonder if Arwen ever thought of me, huddled on a bleak hillside as winter approached the North Downs. I wondered it she could see me, somehow. It used to be said the Elves could see far away if they wanted to. Though why Arwen should want to see me I did not know.

I wondered what Elrond thought, when he thought of me these days. I wondered if he missed the days when we were at ease in one another’s company, when nothing save my intense dislike of sitting still for lessons came between us. I wondered if he knew how much I missed those days.

I wondered what my mother would think of me, if she saw what thoughts were in my mind. What would she think if she knew how even here, among my own kin, my thoughts turn ever to Arwen, or what I would give if I could forsake all claim to the throne of Arnor, simply to be her husband? I knew nothing of my own people till a year ago, but my mother lived among the Dunedain all through her childhood, married a Ranger, and was prepared to devote her life to Arathorn’s cause even as these men around me now are. She rarely speaks of my father now, but I know she loved him dearly. What would she think of me, if she knew I had even once wished to be free of her husband’s name and his legacy?

Such thoughts were what I had thought to escape, by going into the Wild. Somewhere in the back of my mind I had assumed that the life of a Ranger would be full of traveling in strange countries, tracking evil men and orcs, and fighting often. This, I thought, would not allow me much time to think of all I had lost, and all I would have to give up eventually. The idea of long, lonely nighttime watches with nothing but the cold stars for company had never crossed my mind back in Rivendell. So far, it seemed, that was my primary duty, when I wasn’t sleeping.

You will never understand, Elrond had told me once, what is the meaning of honor, until you come to wish you had never heard the word. Then, and only then, my son, if you still hold to the duty laid on you, then you will have found honor, though you will take no joy in it. That, long ago, was Elrond’s answer to a child’s dream of battle-glory. I hadn’t though much of the words when he said them, or long after, but for some reason I remembered them now.

It wasn’t until later that night, curled up in my cloak and gazing at the cloudy, starless sky, that I recalled my mother had once said something very similar about love.

She was right, too.

“What are they waiting for?” I asked Halforth one night, as we sat by the fire. We had finished our watch, he watching the North road and I the South, and after waking our replacements we ate a hurried breakfast by the fire. It was a few hours before dawn, and soon I would sleep until noon, or until Engroth decided we needed to drill, or extra guards were needed.

Halforth shook his head. “News. And I fear it will not be good.”

I frowned, feeling my relative ignorance keenly once more. “Whatever bad news it is, I wish it would come soon, so we could know what it is we fear!” I said, reaching into my pack for breakfast and finding most of the cram wafers to be crumbled.

Halforth stared into the fire. “I sometimes forget that you know so little of our ways, my lord,” he said. “We regularly send runners back and forth between guard posts, so that all may know what is passing in other parts of the country. The latest runner from the bridge at Tharbad is now a week overdue.”

I pondered this in silence a while, pulling out a handful of crumbs and grimacing at the too-salty flavor. Tharbad at least was a name I knew . . . the only crossing on the Bruinen south of Rivendell, it would be the only crossing the orcs could use to come west, unless they came from Carn Dum out of the North. The Rangers had always kept a guard there, against such invaders. “Perhaps he was injured along the road,” I suggested. “Have any been sent to look for him?”

Halforth shook his head. “Not yet, though Engroth will send someone soon, I do not doubt. Still, it is a straight path down the old Road from Tharbad to Fornost, and most of it through Bree-land, and that is settled country. The bridge itself is at the edge of what they in Bree call the Wild. Any Ranger could easily elude most common outlaws, unless there were a great number of them. The Road through Bree-land is supposed to be one of the safest routes to travel in the West. If that has changed, I fear what may have caused such a thing.”

I nodded slowly, recalling our relatively peaceful passage up the Road from Bree to Fornost. “And it has changed suddenly, if it has changed,” I pointed out. “For when last I traveled them those Roads were clear.”

“Aye,” Halforth agreed. “If trouble came out of Bree-land, we would have heard of it sooner.”

And if it was not outlaws from Bree . . . “Orcs? But they would have had to cross the River at some point, and I know they could not have come through Rivendell. Surely the guard would have known if orcs crossed at Tharbad, and sent warning.”

“If any were left alive after the orcs crossed,” Halforth replied darkly. He passed a hand over his eyes. “This is all speculation. His horse could have thrown him and broken his leg. But there is something in the air. A foreboding. I like it not.”

I said nothing, holding my numbed hands out to the fire’s warmth and rubbing them together briskly. After a while, Halforth rose and bade me goodnight, moving toward his blankets.

I stayed a long time by the fire, watching the flames flicker and dance, thinking of what Halforth had told me. Trying to think how I would handle the situation if I were in command, as one day I would be.

It was not a day I was looking forward to.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

The sun had risen, but the air had hardly begun to warm when a hand shook me awake. I uncurled slowly from my cloak, loth to leave my warm nest in the grass and face the cold mist on the downs. Rising, I found Engroth standing before me, looking impatient.

I remember vividly our first meeting, when I arrived at Fornost. Hanging back behind Halforth as he made his report to his commander, uncertain what to say but trying very hard to appear patient and confident, instead of lost and confused.

The commander was not the oldest of all those I had seen here, but there was that in his manner and Halforth's that left me in no doubt he was in command, even before either of them spoke.

"Engroth," Halforth had said simply. He offered no titles, no bows, nor any salute that I recognized, only touched his left hand to the center of his chest briefly. Apparently it had some significance for Engroth returned the gesture.

"Halforth Hithlim's son, mae govannen. What news from the South?"

I blinked at the fragment of Elvish, seeming so incongruous from this bleak-faced Man. His accent, to my surprise, was perfect, but his voice was rough and deep, unlike the clear voices of the Elves I had known. Familiar enough to remind me of home, but so different as to show me that I was among strangers yet.

But you are not an Elf, I reminded myself, resisting the urge to shift my pack to a more comfortable position on my shoulders. Still, I had known few Men in Rivendell, and with the exception of Halforth this was the first Man I had ever spoken to on anything of importance.

Engroth was old. This was the first thing that struck me about him, though as yet I had only a very limited understanding of what the word meant to Men.

In the purest sense of the word, Elladan and Elrohir and the Elves who had raised me were far older in years than any of the Dunedain yet living. Even in the sense of wisdom and experience, the insight and lore of Elrond encompassed things beyond the comprehension of myself or any other mortal, or even many of the Elves. But there was that in war and the Wild, I was beginning to realize, that could embitter a man young, that which neither Elvish light nor Elvish lore could defend against. There were scars on this man's face that would never be healed by Elvish medicine.

I had never before seen a Man who I would have so immediately labeled as old. Surely I had seen tired old graybeards in Bree who walked on crutches, but Engroth's age he carried not on his shoulders but in his eyes--eyes that had seen far too much, and that now were empty black pools in a face of stone.

"In Bree-town there is no news of orcs," Halforth said. "Butterbur assures me he will be vigilant. He at least has not forgotten us."

Engroth nodded.

He was dangerous. That was the second word that came to my mind. Standing before him, even before he noticed me, I felt like nothing so much as a boy caught playing with his father's sword that was much too big for him. I had always been proficient at the sword-drills, and had proven that I could defend myself in actual combat. But I had not yet mastered the art of walking with a blade hung on my belt, without that blade banging audibly against my leg and tripping me if I wasn't careful. In Rivendell, where no enemies came, it was considered a ridiculous ostentation to wear a sword for daily business unless one was using it to practice defense. Besides, most Elves preferred bows and knives to swords, anyway. And though the reality now was much different from the safety of Rivendell, still I carried the weapon as though it were a burden, part of my supplies for traveling.

Engroth did not carry his sword. The blade was not an instrument at all but a part of his body, and he moved as though it had always been there, attached at precisely the same point it was now.

He looked at Halforth, and yet somehow I knew he saw me quite clearly, and was even now examining me, wondering who I was and how I came here, while he discussed tactics with Halforth. He was the same height as I was, but much broader in the shoulders, and his square-jawed face looked as though it had been carved from rock with a few quick, hard strokes, and very little if any refinement after. The lower half of that face was covered by a black beard, and his gray-streaked black hair hung loosely about his shoulders like a lion's mane.

When Halforth finally introduced me to him, he started as if I had struck him. There was something in his eyes then that I could not identify, but it was clear to me in that moment he did not want me here.

Since then he has ignored me, assuming from my age, it seems, that I am as yet unready to take command, and that I must take his orders. Which was no less than what I expected, knowing little or nothing of the duties of a commander.

Yet Elrond and my mother made it clear to me I was expected to be chieftain one day, and I do not know how I can learn what will be expected of me if the current chief insists on pretending I do not exist.

Someone had told me he was my father's cousin, and Arathorn's closest kin before I came. But it is not envy, I do not think. Though he speaks but little to the men around him, but it is obvious they respect him a great deal, and I do not doubt he is a man of honor. Halforth told me that the Dúnedain knew that Arathorn's son lived in Rivendell, and I know that Engroth has no son of his own whom he might want to take my place. And I have not shown him anything but respect since I came here. I am more than willing to honor his decision to retain command yet awhile. Some custom, maybe, I have violated unknowingly. It would not surprise me, for I know precious little of their customs as yet. But while the other Rangers do not seem to know quite what to say to me or what to make of me, it does not seem I have offended any of them. Perhaps some grudge against my father? I know not, and since he does not confront me with my offense I do not know how I can correct it.

"My lord," he greeted me, inclining his head a fraction.

"Sir?" I inquired politely. Another strange thing, this insistence on addressing me as "lord," when as yet I had no real power here. Such an address served only to remind me of the ambiguity of my position here, and how far I still had to go before I could feel like I belonged here.

"You know this country well enough to get to Tharbad?" Like Engroth, brusque but to the point.

"Aye, I do."

"Without using the Road, if need be?" I nodded. "There has been no messenger from the bridge in over a month. One should have been here a week ago. It is time we knew why. If you encounter no enemy and no information between here and Bree, find out what you can from the innkeeper of the Prancing Pony. He knows my name and will aid you."

He paused, looking at me, but not really seeing me, I thought. It seemed he was looking through me, past me, at something else entirely. It was more than a little unnerving, but after a moment he seemed to focus once more. "If they have heard of enemies crossing the bridge, or they have seen nothing of any messenger, go west to the Sarn Ford as swiftly as possible." He pulled a folded square of paper from his pocket. "Give this to the commander of the guard there." I took the paper, tucking it beneath my cloak where it might be secure. "And be prepared for battle," he told me grimly, before turning swiftly on his heel and walking away toward the fire.

Be prepared for battle. The last person to say that to me was Elladan, over a year ago now, before my first encounter with the orcs in the Misty Mountains. I well remember the thrill of anticipation that shot through me then, the excitement of a boy on the eve of his first battle, ready to prove himself a man.

All I felt now was relief, as though a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders. At last I had a task, a specific mission to accomplish. Whatever dangers lay in wait for me on the road, anything had to be better than haunting the ruins of Fornost and waiting for news, while the Rangers watched me and wondered.

I found my horse grazing free on the side of a hill, having refused to be tied to a post with the other horses of the Dúnedain. Such were the horses of Rivendell. He nickered softly as I approached.

"Are you getting bored yet?" I asked, smiling as he butted me in the chest impatiently. "I know, I know, but we're leaving here now. We're going to where the action is."

The horse gave me what I can only call a derisive snort, and I laughed as I mounted. "Come on, let's get out of here."

The guards at the South Road stood and saluted me as I rode past them at a stately walk. The horse lifted his head and tossed his mane proudly, clearly conscious of dignity and enjoying the attention, even though I was not.

I set my heels to his flanks and away we went at a gallop, pounding down the Greenway as though the Hounds of the Nameless Himself were chasing us. The hills were quiet, shrouded in thick mist that muffled all quieter sounds, and the beating of hoofs sounded like distant thunder in the heavy silence.

Even Elvish horses could not keep such a pace for the length of the journey I had to make, but for the moment we were both restless, tired of suffering frustration and inaction. At such a pace few dark thoughts could keep up, with the low bushes and mist-covered fields blurring as we went past, and the force of the wind in my face bringing tears to my eyes.

The Prancing Pony looked much the same as it had when I first saw it. There were fewer guests when I arrived, late at night as the common room was emptying out. Bidding my horse stay by the gate, I opened the door and moved quietly inside, to see that the room was almost empty. The great fire was still burning in the fireplace, so I pulled up a chair at the table nearest the blaze.

It had been some three days since I left Fornost, and I rather hoped someone was still awake who knew how to cook, for I had had nothing but cram to eat since the last time I came through Bree. I was happy for the moment simply to sit in a warm room by a warm fire, in a town where I could reasonably expect to be safe for a while. I had ridden hard to get here, and the weather had only grown colder.

The common room was deserted, but there were still dirty plates on the tables, so I assumed someone must be coming soon to clean up. I would just stay here and wait for them. I stopped shivering gradually, still wrapped in my cloak, feeling the warmth of the fire slowly drain the tension away, leaving me with only a vast weariness.

Pulling the hood of the cloak over my face, I slumped forward and put my head down on the table, pillowed on my arms.

I did not intend to go to sleep, but I was awakened some time later by someone shaking my elbow. Looking up, I saw a boy of about ten years, who looked somehow familiar.

"You can't sleep here, sir," he said, looking very serious as he stood in front of me with his hands clasped behind his back. Wondering what a child his age was doing still awake at such an hour, I blinked. "There are still some rooms upstairs if you want one, but you'll have to pay."

"Of course," I said. "I don't know what time it is, but would there be any chance I could get something to eat?"

The boy shook his head. "Sir, it's after midnight!"

Looking around, I could see that all the tables had been cleared and the floor swept, and the fire was reduced to glowing coals on the hearth. I must have been asleep for quite a while. I remembered then that I wasn't just here to get a meal and a night's sleep. "Is the innkeeper here?"

"No, he's away on business. Should be back by tomorrow, though. I'm minding things till he gets back--with a little help from old Hob, of course."

"Of course," I agreed absently. "I see. Then . . . I'll take a room for tonight."

He was looking at me strangely. "You've been here before, haven't you?"

I nodded. "Aye, I have, once."

"You were cleaner then," the boy observed matter-of-factly.

I laughed, not knowing how else to respond to that. "I imagine I was," I agreed. "What's your name, lad?"

"Butterbur," he said, drawing himself up to his full (not very impressive) height. "Barliman Butterbur. My father owns this inn, and I will someday. What's your name?"

I started to say "Estel" before realizing that wasn't my name anymore. I was about to give him my real name before I hesitated, wondering if that was a good idea if it was true there were enemies in Bree-land. Finally I shook my head. "I don't know," I replied, trying to sound enigmatic rather than simply stupid.

The boy stared at me. "You're one of those Rangers, aren't you?" he said, with a hint of childish scorn creeping into his voice, as if that explained everything.

I froze for a second, then shrugged. "What of it?" I asked, standing up so that I could look down at him, daring him to make an issue of it. He said nothing, only looked at me before turning around and heading for the door.

"Rooms are upstairs," he said. "Follow me."

He bounded up the stairs with the limitless energy of youth, as I trudged wearily behind him. He stopped on the landing, waiting for me to catch up. "Could you possibly go any slower?" he demanded. He took a key out of his shirt pocket and opened the nearest door before handing the key to me. "Breakfast is at seven," he said. "You move so fast, I think I'll call you Trotter. How would you like that?"

I leaned again the half open door, as I groaned out loud, suppressing a yawn. It was much too late at night for this kind of thing. I fixed him with a mock glare. "Isn't it past your bedtime?"

He only laughed, and ran back down the hall, disappearing into the darkness.

Trotter? I thought wryly as I pulled off my boots, not bothering to take off my cloak before letting myself lean back onto soft feather-stuffed pillows. Almost I wished I could lie there awake yet awhile, so as to appreciate such a rare luxury while I could, but I was too weary. My eyes felt dry as if someone had poured sand into them, and it was a great effort to keep my eyelids open more than a second. I let my eyes close.

Regardless of weariness I had become accustomed to waking with the sunrise. It is easier, somehow, though, to wake quickly when you have naught for a bed save grass and tree roots. I was much more reluctant to leave the soft feather-mattress, stumbling out of bed as stiff muscles protested painfully.

Almost as soon as I had finished pulling on my boots, there was a pounding on my door. Opening it revealed the young boy I had met the previous night, standing with his arms folded and an impatient expression on his face.

"My father has returned, Sir Ranger," he said. "You wished to speak with him?"

"Aye." I ran a hand through my hair and decided I could do nothing about my undoubtedly disreputable appearance. If the look the boy was giving me was any indication, nothing I could do in the next half hour was going to make me look reasonably presentable, so there was little use even trying. I followed him out of the room.

He stopped in the doorway to the common room to give greetings to several guests, pointing in the direction of the bar, where a stout man with a bushy beard was serving drinks. I moved quickly past him toward the bar, where the man was engaged in conversation with several other patrons. Leaning against the bar, I waited for him to finish.

It didn't take long for the boy to appear at my side again. "You move faster when you're awake," he commented. I gave him a dirty look. "Well, if you don't like Trotter, how about I call you Strider?"

I shook my head silently, eyeing the drinks set on the counter and deciding I could use one right about now. I saw the bartender notice me out of the corner of his eye, and a startled expression pass over his face. He said a few parting words to a guest, then turned to me.

"Welcome to the Prancing Pony, Master--"

"His name's Strider," the boy supplied helpfully. "He's a Ranger."

I said nothing, seeing no reason to reveal my true identity as yet. Strider was, I supposed, marginally less insulting than Trotter. The bartender looked down at the boy. "Yes, I can see that, lad. Run along, now, and see what the other guests need."

"Yes, Father," the boy responded, and grinned at me cheekily before he moved off toward the center of the room.

"Master Strider," he turned to me. "What can we do for you?"

"You are the innkeeper?" I inquired.

"Aye, I am."

"I come from Engroth, at Fornost," I said, lowering my voice. He nodded, showing no surprise but looking very serious. "We have been out of touch with the guard at Tharbad too long, and wondered if you had heard news, or seen a messenger."

His face was still, carefully betraying nothing. "I have heard nothing. But if this is true it is grave news. If there is trouble at Tharbad, all Bree-land lies unprotected. We here rely on the Rangers to guard our borders from all manner of enemies."

"Engroth keeps his own counsel," I replied, not knowing what else to say as I knew nothing else. "I am merely sent to gather information. He knows his duty, do not doubt it."

He nodded. "I have known Engroth many years, and I know him to be a man of honor. If there is any way I can assist the Rangers, you have only to name it." His voice returned to a normal level. "Now sit, Master Strider, and be at ease a little while! I know your errand is urgent, but take some food and ale before you set out."

"I would be most grateful," I assured him, pulling a stool toward me and sitting down.

In less than an hour, my horse and I were on our way to the Sarn Ford. The innkeeper gave me his blessing but little else. I did not see the boy again. It was a clear day, and the sun shone brightly as it seldom did on the downs at Fornost. I had seen enough of ethereal mists to last me a lifetime, and I was glad of what little warmth the sunlight provided.

It was still cold, and my cloak was damp, and the wind of our passage chilled me as I rode on. Leaving the town of Bree, I grew more and more aware of my own vulnerability, riding alone through a land that might well lie open to attack, if the attack had not already come. Be prepared for battle. Engroth's words came back to me, and I was ever aware of my bow and quiver as they bounced against my back. Trusting the horse to keep to the road and not stumble, I let my eyes roam the bushes and trees alongside the road, searching for anything out of place, for any signs of unfriendly creatures. Often my hand strayed to the hilt of the sword buckled at my side.

Safe in my shirt pocket, the paper Engroth had given me remained a mystery, and I wondered often what instructions it contained. I did not doubt it gave orders to the commander of the Sarn Ford, as well as information as to what action Engroth himself would take. But what action that would be, and what enemy we hunted, I knew not.

Orcs were the most likely source of any disturbance at Tharbad, unless the Dunlendings had come this far North, and that seemed to me unlikely. I had fought against the orcs of the Misty Mountains before, and they were not an enemy I feared overmuch. In the lands between the Rivers Bruinen and Baranduin, the Rangers would have the advantage of the ground, while the enemy would be on territory that was unfamiliar. Still the troubling question remained--what had driven any enemy from East of the Loudwater to come west in sufficient force to neutralize a guard of Rangers? And what was their purpose here?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

It was early the next morning when my horse stopped abruptly.

He smelled something, that much was clear. I had learned to trust him instincts, and dismounted. Laying a hand on his neck, patting the animal absently, I reached for my sword with my other hand.

The Road at this point wound through a forest, and the forest had of a sudden gone silent. Even the wind had stilled, and I could feel the small hairs rising on the back of my neck as I stared into the green gloom, turning slowly round and trying to determine what manner of creature watched me.

The horse whinnied softly. Standing perfectly still, I heard a rustle off to my right.

My sword cleared its sheath almost of its own accord, leaping to my hand as I whirled around. There was no more sound, but my eyes were fixed on a patch of tall undergrowth by the side of the Road, that I had seen move.

"Show yourself!" I commanded, bringing my sword up, tense and ready.

"I--mean you no harm." The voice that spoke from the bushes was hardly more than a reedy whisper, faint and weak. Casting a glance round at the surrounding woods, I lowered my sword slowly, advancing toward the voice.

Lying on the ground before me was a young man, perhaps a year or two younger even than myself. Dark eyes blinked up at me out of a face that was waxy and drawn. One arm lay twisted at an obscene angle, and there were dark stains on his torn clothing that could only be blood.

His eyes followed me as I knelt swiftly beside him, unslinging my pack from my back. "Have you--had good hunting?" he asked, taking a deep, rasping breath, as though the words were an effort.

Confused, I frowned, having expected a plea for help, a warning of enemies on the Road . . . perhaps the young man was delirious. If he had lost as much blood as it seemed, such would not be a surprise.

"Good enough," I replied, reaching into my pack for water, and something that might serve as a bandage. I had learned something of the healing arts from Elrond, but I had carried no medicines with me from Imladris.

Surprise flickered across the young man's face, then an expression that might have been disappointment. The eyes that watched me were quite lucid, I decided. Not delirious after all, though in serious straits all the same.

"I will not harm you," I said quietly, surveying him quickly. He had obviously lost a great deal of blood, and by the extent of the swelling in his arm I judged he had been lying here for some time. Valar only knew what manner of wounds were hidden by what remained of his clothes. "How came you by these injuries?"

"Orcs," he breathed, reaching up with his good arm to pluck weakly at my cloak. I froze.

"Where?"

"Heading--west," he whispered. "You must go--Bree-town--inn of--Prancing Pony. Tell the innkeeper . . ." Probably at least one rib broken, part of my mind noted, judging by the way he is breathing . . .

I frowned, noticing for the first time the similarity between his raiment and what the Rangers traveled in. He wore no cloak or weapons, nor the rayed-star clasp that the guard at Fornost wore, but that could easily have been taken from him by raiding orcs. His garments were the same soft brown as Halforth's and his boots were of the same make as well.

"You dress even as the Rangers do," I said, drawing my hunting knife to cut the sleeve away from his broken arm. The young man flinched at the sight of the blade. Very slowly, I reached for the tattered sleeve. The cloth parted a few inches when I set the edge of the blade against it, sawing carefully so as not to jar his arm. "I must set your arm," I told him, taking care to keep my voice level and as reassuring as I could.

"And so do you," he said finally, and it took me a moment to realize he referred to my Ranger cloak. "And yet you do not know--" He stopped abruptly.

I remembered his first question, and it dawned on me that I had perhaps failed to give a certain password he had requested. Surely, I thought, the Rangers must have ways of recognizing one another in the Wild--ways that no one had bothered to explain to me.

Of course, I had no way of knowing that the boy was indeed a Ranger without asking him, and he was unlikely to reveal himself to a stranger if he were. I debated but a moment, deciding that he was in no condition to be a threat.

"I am called Aragorn, son of Arathorn," I said at last, running careful fingers over his arm, feeling as gently as I could for the break. He took a sharp breath, though whether from pain or surprise I could not tell. "I have but recently rejoined my kin, and I do not yet know all their ways."

He was staring at me now, sunken eyes wide, and he hardly seemed to notice as my fingers continued to probe the bruised and swollen flesh around his elbow. "So it is true," he said, letting out a long, shaky sigh. His good hand reached out to seize mine, and I clasped it firmly, wondering what he meant. "You have returned." I nodded, confused. "I am called Halbarad, son of Halforth. Praise to the Valar that I have found you! You must warn them--"

Suddenly it all snapped into place, and I would have smacked a hand against my forehead if I'd had one free, for not seeing it sooner. "You come from Tharbad." It was not a question.

He nodded. "Aye." He swallowed, his eyes darting this way and that, as if expecting to see enemies lurking behind every bush. "We were attacked--orcs, maybe a hundred of them. We were only ten at the bridge, but we gave a good fight . . ."

I gripped his hand tightly. "Which direction did they go? How swiftly were they moving?"

"They went west. It took them two weeks to reach here, though, for they turned aside to pillage nearly every farm they passed. They carried me with them a prisoner, but they left me for dead here a few hours ago."

Then not all those injuries came in battle, I thought grimly, noting for the first time what seemed to be burn marks, along his arm and showing on his chest through the tears in his shirt. About his neck and shoulders there were several long gashes that still oozed dark blood. I took a long, slow breath, feeling suddenly very alone and very frightened. The severity of the situation was just beginning to dawn on me, and with it the enormity of the responsibility that rested on my shoulders. There was a large band of orcs west of me, maybe between me and Sarn Ford, and who knew how many would die if I failed to reach the Ford before they did?

"Why did they take you prisoner?" I asked finally, surprised at the steadiness of my voice. "Were there any other prisoners?"

"Nay," he replied. "All the others are dead. They wanted--information."

I felt a chill run through me. "What information?"

"Isildur's Heir," he whispered. "They wished to know if an heir lived yet, and where he could be found. I told them nothing, for indeed I knew nothing of where you were until now."

The import of his words sank in slowly, as I cast around for a stick to use as a splint, my hands moving by pure instinct, for my thoughts were far away. A large band of orcs had come west of the Misty Mountains to look for me? Until now the raid had seemed little more than a larger-than-normal pillaging party, which had by sheer force of numbers managed to break through the Rangers and was now running wild across the unprotected farmlands of Eriador. Such was common behavior for orcs, though it was unusual that so many of them would get together at once. But for so large a party to come west, on account of me . . . I knew little of the ways of the Rangers, but from Elladan and Elrohir I had learned something of orcs, and I knew that they would not undertake such a mission on their own. Someone or something was directing them. Someone or something was looking for me.

Halbarad pulled my hand toward him, squeezing weakly. "You must--fly," he said. "Make for Sarn Ford while there is yet time! Send to Fornost . . ." He paused, gasping for breath. "I am finished," he rasped. "Go while you can."

I stared at him. Yes, here was a stick that would do nicely. My hands moved of their own accord to trim the wood, but my eyes did not leave the boy's face. Too much too think about, too much hanging on my next move, and not enough time to make a decision. But decide I must.

He had said they were moving slowly. But what if they had cast aside their prisoner because they wanted to move faster now, and could not be burdened? The message had to reach the Ford. The guard at Sarn Ford didn't even know there were orcs west of the mountains. They didn't even know that there was trouble. I did not want my first command decision as a Ranger to be to leave a comrade to die. Nor to leave an entire guard to be surprised by orcs. Halforth had been kind to me at Fornost . . . how could I leave his son to die alone?

He might die anyway before I got to the Ford.

I knew how to fight. I had fought before. But this making decisions that would affect others' lives was new to me, and I did not like it. I knew nothing of strategy, nor of the necessity of sacrifice in war. But I did know something of healing, so I lifted Halbarad's arm as gently as I could.

"This is going to hurt," I warned him, freeing my hand from his grip. He started to say something again, but I shook my head. I did not know what I should do, but I knew what things I was capable of doing, and leaving this boy to die was not one of them. "I'm not leaving you, so lie quiet and let me help you!" For the first time I let my voice turn sharp.

Feeling gently for the break, laying the stick along side the arm, then a quick pull and it was done. Halbarad made a strangled sound, and when I looked back at his face I saw that he had fainted. It was better that way, I thought. He is in less pain, and he cannot argue. I concentrated on binding the splint to his arm.

Wetting a strip of cloth, I washed the gashes on his neck and shoulder as best I could, binding them carefully. Next I bound his ribs as best I could, thanking whatever Valar still watched over us in these dark times that none had punctured a lung. After ascertaining that there was nothing more I could do for him here, with no medicines and little water, I began to think how I would get him onto the horse. He was much lighter than I had expected, though still difficult to lift, and I feared he would be too weak from starvation as well as from his wounds to live long.

Doubt assailed me once again as I took the reins of my horse in one hand, holding him steady astride the horse with my other arm around his shoulders. I should mount the horse myself and gallop as swiftly as I could, toward the Sarn Ford. But I could not do it. I could not leave him here, so I set out at the best speed I could manage, walking and leading the horse and trying not to let him fall off.

It did not take me long to discover the tracks of the raiding party. I had never hunted orcs alone in the Wild before, but there was no mistaking the trail here. A wide swath of torn and trampled earth stretched out before us as I turned toward the Ford. I debated the wisdom of staying on the Road then, but I had already been delayed too long by my wounded companion, and so I decided to risk traveling on the Road for a while, at least. The trail was still fresh, and if they were moving as slowly as Halbarad said I hoped to pass them within a day, maybe two.

I did not like to think what toll so swift a journey with so little rest would take on the boy, but I had no choice. He would die for certain if I left him alone in the forest, and I had no time to stop and rest. There was little enough I could do for him in the forest, anyway--he needed shelter, and medicines such as I hoped would be found at Sarn Ford. I could only pray he had enough strength yet to survive the journey.

He never seemed to fully regain consciousness that day, or if he did he never spoke. He spent most of the day in an uneasy slumber, muttering occasionally, but never anything I could understand.

We left the Road a few hours after dusk. If I judged aright, we had gained on the raiders considerably, enough so that I did not want to risk continuing after them on the Road after dark. Here and there throughout the day, I had seen columns of black smoke rising off to the side of the Road, where the trail of the orcs diverged before returning to their course. Innocent farmers--such as these I was sworn to protect, as a Ranger. But there was nothing I could do for them now, save to bring the news of orcs to Sarn Ford.

The crescent moon had risen over the barren heath when at last I halted. The boy was still unconscious, but to my mind he looked paler than he had when I first encountered him. It might have been the moonlight. I myself was nearly overcome with weariness, and under the light of the moon any orc would see better and fight better than under the full light of day. Better to stop now, than risk running into the rear guard.

I guided the horse to a fairly even patch of ground, easing the boy down onto the grass as gently as I could. He moaned, and stirred briefly, but he did not open his eyes. The night was bitterly cold, and I dared make no fire. Shivering, I unwrapped my heavy cloak, wrapping it securely around Halbarad and tucking it under his shoulders. Cold as it was, I knew he needed the warmth far more than I.

Reaching out with one hand, I felt at his neck for a pulse. It was there, but slower than I would have liked. Of course, I added to myself, the hearts of the Elves beat faster than those of Men, and for all I knew this could be normal for him.

"My lord." I blinked, jerking my head up and realizing I had been about to fall asleep. I inched closer to the boy and adjusted the cloak, feeling singularly useless. There was only one plant that grew in the Wild lands between Imladris and Mithlond that could strengthen him, and so far I had seen no athelas on the Road.

"Shh," I said softly. "If you're going to tell me I should have left you behind, save your breath. I'm not going to do it."

"You must warn . . ." He took a rasping breath. "Warn Fornost. And Sarn . . ."

"Fornost already knows," I cut him off. Which was not entirely true--Engroth knew something had gone wrong at Tharbad, but he had no idea as to the size of the raiding party--nor of their interest in me. But Engroth had ordered me to proceed with all speed to Sarn Ford regardless of what information I found. Though with an injured companion I was hardly making "all speed." "We're on our way to Sarn Ford now."

"They must--be warned," he repeated, and his voice was a whisper. I reached out a hand, laying it on the boy's forehead. No fever, thank the Valar! Not yet at least.

"How old are you?" I asked, not at all certain of the wisdom of letting him fall asleep in the cold.

"Eighteen," he whispered, sounding perplexed and a tad defensive.

"Then I'm older than you," I said matter-of-factly. "And if I understand the customs of the Rangers, and it's a fair chance I don't, I probably outrank you, too, since my father was chieftain. And in any case you're not in any condition to stop me from bringing you to Sarn Ford."

He stared at me for a long moment before he spoke again. "I have been raised as a Ranger all my life--to fight and to die for the Dúnedain. If my time has come now, I am not afraid to give my life. I would not expect any Dúnadan to let one man sway him from his duty, comrade or no. Such is our way."

There was fear in his eyes, and in the pale moonlight he looked unbelievably young to be saying such words. But there was unmistakable pride in his voice, and it was clear he meant them. I stared at him, not knowing quite how to respond.

"You are fortunate I was raised by the Elves, then!" I snapped finally. I pushed myself to my feet, stamping and blowing on my hands against the cold. This was not the sort of night one wanted to be sitting still if one could help it. Particularly without a cloak. Wrapping my arms around myself, I cast more than one regretful glance at my own cloak, tucked carefully around Halbarad.

But he needed it more than I did, and if I was going to delay so long for his sake, I was not about to let him die on the Road.

"So tell me," I asked, trying to keep him talking, while stopping my teeth from chattering, "What's it like being raised by Rangers? I never met one until about a month ago."

He did not speak for some time, and for a while, I feared he had fallen asleep again. "I would not trade this life for any other," he replied. "Though it is not an easy one. My father is a noble man, and I am proud to follow his example." Again he seemed defensive, as though expecting a challenge, but I offered none, standing with my arms folded, trying not to stare at the Evening Star just above the horizon. Where are you tonight, Arwen? Some place warmer than here, Valar grant it! For it will be long ere I sit at your side in the Hall of Fire.

"I never knew my father," I said at last, thinking of Elrond. And what do you think, Ada*, when you think of me? Or do you think of me at all?

"Nor did I," Halbarad said softly. "He was slain the year I was born. But even today, all among us honor his memory. He was an honorable man, and kind and generous as well."

Kind and generous . . . well, he must have been, or my mother would never have married him. But he had left nothing to his son save a broken sword, and a legacy I still longed to be free of, though it shamed me to think so in the face of this boy's calm courage. Arathorn son of Arador, chieftain of the Dúnedain. From what little Elrond and my mother had told me, I knew he had been well-respected, and the way in which Halforth and his son both spoke of him, it was clear he was remembered with love, even after eighteen years. But to me, his son, he would never be more than a name, a legend . . . a standard against which I would be measured, and, I did not doubt, found wanting.

"So I have been told," I murmured, lifting my eyes to the Evening Star where it burned fiercely bright, surrounded by wisps of cloud--or smoke--heedless of doubt, or shadow.

"Raised by the Elves," he said, with a chuckle that ended in a fit of coughing. "I wonder how Engroth liked that!"

I frowned, not understanding what seemed to be some kind of private Ranger joke. "Not at all, I fear," I told him ruefully. "Though I know not what I have done amiss, that he dislikes me so."

Halbarad let out a short breath of laughter. "Oh, merely that you were raised by Elves, and Elves of Imladris no less, would be enough," he assured me.

I sighed. I knew not why he was so amused, but if my words kept him from falling asleep in this cold, I cared little if he desired to have a little fun at the expense of my ignorance. "Does Engroth dislike the Elves so much?" I inquired finally, curious.

He looked at me for a long while as though truly perplexed by my lack of knowledge. "Worse than any of us," he replied at last. "Truly, I am surprised he spoke not of it to you. He will trust nothing Elvish, nor has he, as long as I have lived. Not that he isn't a disagreeable sort without any Elves or Elf-raised lords around . . ." He trailed off, as though embarrassed to be saying such things of a commander to his future chieftain, but I only laughed.

"Aye, it does seem at times he cannot tolerate anyone."

Halbarad blinked at me, startled. Then, finally, he smiled. "And then we ignore his stern looks, most of us younger ones, and he grows even worse. Still . . . one grows accustomed to many things in the Wild, and there are times when disagreeable commanders may be the least of your worries. So my father always said." His smile faded, and he seemed to be looking at something else, not seeing me at all. "And I suppose he was right."

I nodded, watching his face with some concern. Reaching into my pack, I pulled out a few of my less-crumbled cram wafers. "You should eat something, " I said. I ate a few mouthfuls hastily, taking a long gulp from my water-flask before turning to my companion. He was watching me intently, and it occurred to me to wonder what sort of food, if any, he had had from the orcs. From the way he was watching me, as I rummaged in my pack for more, it could not have been much.

Carefully I put one arm under his shoulders, wincing in sympathy at his barely-suppressed exclamation of pain. Taking care not to jar his broken arm, I helped him to sit up, letting him lean against my shoulder.

"Slowly," I cautioned, as he bolted the wafer I gave him, and looked expectantly at me for more. I poured some more fragments into his open palm.

When we had finished eating, I uncorked my water-flask again and held it to his lips. Convincing him to drink in small sips was no easy task, but eventually I managed it. Afterwards I let him lean back against me, wrapping my arms gently around his shoulders in an attempt to shield him from the worst of the cold. He was faring much better than I had any right to expect, after I had dragged him off on such a long and swift journey through the cold, when he should be resting someplace warm. Perhaps he had not been injured as badly as I had at first believed. Or perhaps the race of Men of the West were hardier than the Elves of Rivendell gave them credit for being.

At some point in the course of the night I must have fallen asleep, despite my best efforts to stay awake. I was awakened abruptly when I felt Halbarad jerk half-upright against me. He seemed caught in some nightmare, and I, barely awake, was disoriented, fumbling at my side for my sword, before I remembered where I was and who was with me.

Grasping him by the shoulders, I shook him gently, calling his name. He flailed at me with his good arm, landing a surprisingly strong blow across my face. I cursed, but did not let go, and with a cry his eyes flew open, unfocused, staring.

"Halbarad?" I said, squeezing his shoulders gently, willing him to the present. He blinked, seeming to focus on my face. It was several seconds before he seemed to recognize me.

"Aragorn?" he whispered. The name jarred me, and it took me a second to nod reassuringly.

"I am here."

He glanced around at the still-darkened heath, putting his good hand to his forehead and grimacing. After a while he looked at me again.

"My lord," he said, and his voice was stronger now. "Forgive me."

I shook my head. "There is nothing to forgive," I told him quietly. "It was a dream." I let him lie back on the grass, standing up stiffly and stretching sore muscles. By the positions of the stars I could tell it was nearly dawn, though the sun's first light had yet to show herself glimmering over the crown of far-off Amon Sûl. "And please," I said, looking down, "call me Aragorn. Too many people calling me lord makes me nervous." I did not mention that as yet the name Aragorn made me hardly less nervous.

We stayed off the Road that day, moving as swiftly as we could. We kept far enough North of the Road that we never saw an orc, but when I saw new smoke rising in the East, from a farmstead we had already passed, I knew we had overtaken them.

It was nearly nightfall by this time, but the Road was now open before us, and I did not want to stop until we were far enough ahead not to have to worry about being passed in the night. I was weary beyond words, but I did not know how I would get up again if I allowed myself to lie down and take some rest. It had grown cold enough that it would be more dangerous to rest than to keep on, for myself as well as my companion. During the afternoon it had started to snow, large delicate flakes settling on my unprotected face. It was not sticking, not yet, but the wind was chill. I knew we needed to reach the warm fires of the Sarn Ford guard soon.

I had found a sprig or two of athelas by the Road, when first we returned to the open Greenway, growing bravely despite the snowflakes that clung to it. There was no time to stop and boil it in water, so I gave it to Halbarad and told him to chew it, hoping that would help somewhat, in the absence of other medicine.

Before, he had seemed somewhat improved by food and water, but now he was shivering constantly, as he drifted in and out of his troubled dreams. But as yet no fever had set in, and so I counted my steps and prayed we would soon reach our destination.

It was after midnight when we finally arrived. My vision had narrowed to include only the Road in front of me, and I needed all my powers of concentration simply to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I saw the glow far off and directed the horse toward it, tugging on the reins with stiff fingers, stumbling and nearly falling as we left the Road and made straight across the plain toward the light. There was a faint roaring in my ears.

We blundered into their camp before I even realized I was looking at a fire. I heard surprised exclamations, and then there were firelit faces all around us, and a wave of warmth that made my entire body tingle with the return of sensation.

There were hands on my arms, gray-streaked black hair, and gray eyes peering into mine. It took me several long seconds to register their garb, their swords and bows, the rayed stars that clasped their dark green cloaks.

"Halbarad!" Someone took the reins of the horse from my frozen fingers, and two more were lifting the boy down and carrying him to the fire. "And who is this?" The roaring was louder, and I realized it was not coming from my head but rather from a river flowing over stones.

Hands guided me toward the fire, and I looked around, seeking my companion. A deep voice was speaking. " . . . all right, once he is warm. And so will you be. Come!" A warm cloak was draped about my shoulders, and I was pushed down to sit by the fire. "Tell us, what is your name, and how came you by our comrade? We are in your debt."

I blinked, tearing my eyes away from the mesmerizing dance of the flames, forcing myself to focus on the speaker. A tall man, sitting cross-legged beside me, hair gray like a wolf's, tied back by a strip of leather. Eyes creased by too many smiles, or too much squinting to aim a bow. Other faces, blurs of black and gray and firelit orange, were silent before this one.

I reached into my pocket, remembering my mission. For a horrible moment I feared I had lost Engroth's message, but my fingers brushed paper and I pulled out the folded sheet and handed it to him. "Orders," I whispered. "From Fornost. There are orcs behind us, fifty at least."

He took the paper, and as his face turned grave, I felt my eyes beginning to close almost of their own accord. I was shivering, even sitting by this fire, wrapped in a heavy cloak. I opened my eyes with an effort, to see the man putting the paper into his pocket. "I am Caran, son of Daglod. I command this guard." He beckoned to another of the Rangers, and someone thrust a mug of some hot, steaming liquid into my hands. I wrapped my fingers gratefully around the warmth, smelling some kind of savory soup. "You have done well. Rest now, for we will move tomorrow." I nodded, sipping at hot soup. "What's your name, lad?"

I sat up as straight as I could, looking him in the eye and thinking I really didn't look the part right now. "I am called Aragorn, son of Arathorn," I said in a hoarse whisper, with as much dignity as I could muster. Caran's eyes widened, and he touched his forehead with one gloved hand, then the center of his chest. It was a gesture I was unfamiliar with, but I hoped he would take my blank stare as evidence of exhaustion, rather than ignorance.

"We had heard no word that you had returned, my lord," he said gravely. "But I rejoice that you are with us once again."

I nodded my thanks, sipping again at the soup, too tired to play at being royalty any longer. "I am glad to be here at last," I said, referring to the fire and the camp, though I did not doubt he took it to mean I was glad to be back with my own people.

"You have traveled long, and you are weary," he said. "Rest now, my lord, for we are ordered to move in the morning."

He stood, and I looked up at him. "Halbarad . . . ?" I trailed off, looking around for him. Finally I saw him, sleeping by the fire, and two men near my age keeping watch over him.

"He will be cared for," Caran said softly. I nodded, stretching out in front of the fire and wrapping the cloak around myself.

*ada: father, in Sindarin


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

It was a little past dawn when a hand on my shoulder woke me. I rose, stretching stiffly and feeling warmer and more alive than I had in several days.

"We are preparing to break camp," the young man who had awakened me said. I nodded, accepting the mug of hot tea he pressed into my hands, and reaching for my bow and pack.

"You are the one who brought Halbarad in," said another voice. Straightening, I saw another man of about the same age.

"Aye," I answered. The two, standing side by side, might have been brothers. A few years older than I, they were both tall and lean, black hair tied back and gray eyes that regarded me with curiosity.

"And is it true--" the first Ranger began. I looked at him, puzzled. "Halbarad says you are Arathorn's son."

"I am," I replied. "Then he is awake? How does he fare?"

"Much better, now that he has someplace warm to rest, and some hot food and drink," the second Ranger assured me. "For that we are in your debt. He has been a friend of ours since we were children."

The first one bowed. "Allow us to introduce ourselves, lord, and welcome you to our humble estate, here on the scenic banks of Baranduin! I am Beregir, son of Baranhad, and my companion is called Hirion, son of Haldrin. We are your humble servants!"

Hirion bowed likewise. "We cannot offer you a bed, nor indeed much for breakfast but cram, and I daresay you've had your fill of that already." He folded his arms. "It is our policy, normally, to torment the new youngsters whenever we can--"

"Make them pull our watches--"

"Steal their pipeweed--"

"Tie their bootlaces in knots--"

"Not to mention frightening them out of their wits with tales of all the horrid monsters we haven't encountered--but they don't know that yet." He looked to Beregir for confirmation, and the other nodded, adopting a severe pose. "But since you are the King and all that . . ." Hirion sighed deeply, looking very disappointed.

"And we do love Halbarad, even if we do torment him most of all--"

"And since you just came from Fornost--"

"And we all know what Engroth is like to newcomers--"

"Particularly newcomers that come from Rivendell and dress like Elves--"

Beregir gave a shudder of mock horror. "We've come to the decision we really ought to leave you alone."

"Much as it pains us to pass up such an opportunity."

"We haven't had any fresh blood since Halbarad joined!"

"We just wanted you to realize how lucky you are, to get off this easy from us."

"We have our reputations to think of, you know."

"Wouldn't want anyone to think we'd gone soft."

They exchanged horrified looks, before turning to me, in twin stern attitudes, arms folded. At first somewhat bewildered by the rapid-fire exchange between the two, I finally began to laugh, relieved that at least someone here did not seem to look at me and see only impossible expectations that must be met.

They each draped an arm about my shoulders, steering me toward the other side of the fire, where one man still lay sleeping, wrapped in warm blankets.

"Like we said before," Hirion continued, adopting a lecturing tone, and I could not help but smile despite apprehension for what the day might bring, "we do love Halbarad."

"He is like the annoying younger brother we never had!" Beregir said.

"I heard that," a faint voice came from deep within the pile of blankets. Quickly I dropped to my knees beside him.

"How are you feeling this morn?" I asked him. He looked better than I remembered. His face still looked thin, and there were shadows still under his eyes, but there was color in his face, and his eyes regarding me were bright and alert.

"My lord," he greeted me. I put a hand on his shoulder. "We made it?"

I nodded. "Aye, we did. Rest easy now." His eyes shifted as Beregir and Hirion knelt beside me, then returned to my face. "I owe you my life, my lord."

In his face there was the calm of utter exhaustion, but I thought I saw relief there, too, and a gratitude that embarrassed me. I squeezed his shoulder. "I thought I told you not to call me lord," I reminded him softly.

"Aye," he whispered. His eyes closed, then opened again. "I see you've met these two--rogues," he commented. I smiled at the offended looks that passed between Beregir and Hirion. "Watch out--for them." A smile flickered on his face, and Hirion cuffed him gently on the shoulder.

"Like all annoying younger brothers," he told me, "this lad insists he wants to come with us and fight, when he knows perfectly well he is in no condition to do anything of the sort." Halbarad started to protest at this, but Beregir continued.

"We were hoping you, as King, son of Arathorn and future chieftain, heir of Isildur and keeper of the Sword That Was Broken, and--did I leave any titles out?" This was addressed to Hirion, who shook his head. "We were hoping that you could order him to be a good boy and rest. We thought rank might convince him where common sense would not."

I turned to Halbarad. "And how do you propose to fight, when your arm is broken?" I inquired.

"It is only my left arm!" he protested. "It is not my sword arm."

"I risked delay and discovery by the orcs to bring you here," I told him. "And I risked Engroth's wrath, which is far worse. So I am not about to let you go off and get yourself killed when you have not yet recovered, after I went to so much trouble for you."

He blinked, and I saw the familiar defensive look come into his eyes. "I do not doubt your courage, nor your loyalty," I said softly, realizing that though to Engroth I might be merely an untried boy, to this man younger than myself I was something of an authority figure, as well as savior. "You have endured much, and you have earned your rest. Sleep now, and recover your strength! We shall have need of you soon."

For a long moment he only stared at me. Finally, though, he nodded. I smiled, patting his shoulder gently, noting with a pang the trust that shone in the boy's dark eyes. Beregir tucked the blankets more securely round him, and Hirion whispered something before they rose. I could feel his eyes on me as we moved around the fire to where the warriors were gathering.

Caran greeted me as we joined him. "My lord, fair morning."

"Fair morning, Captain."

"We are nearly ready to depart," he informed me. "We shall have to leave Halbarad here, for he is too weak to travel. I have spoken to the Master of Buckland, who has agreed to shelter him in our absence." I nodded, relieved and curious. I had never met one of the halflings before, though they were supposed to live in Bree as well as the Shire. "We shall follow Engroth's orders." From the look he gave me, it was clear he expected me to know what Engroth's orders had been.

"Engroth did not inform me as to what his orders were," I said.

Caran looked surprised for a moment, then strangely troubled. "I see. Perhaps not surprising. We have been ordered to proceed east a few miles, then wait for Engroth's signal. Then we shall attack in from of the orcs, while Engroth and the Fornost guard will attack from the side. There are many more of them than Engroth anticipated, but our strategy remains the same. We are but ten at Sarn Ford, and Engroth has twenty and five, but if we attack them from two directions at once, they may think we are more, and flee."

"And if they do not flee?" I asked, relieved that at last someone was prepared to explain something, instead of letting me blunder about in ignorance. "Engroth takes many risks. He made these plans knowing nothing of the numbers or even the nature of the enemy."

"Engroth has always taken risks," Caran said thoughtfully. "He was known as one of our most daring commanders. As was your father." He looked at me. "We shall have to think swiftly, and find some other plan, if they do not flee. If we fail to turn them aside here, all of the Shire lies unprotected. The Took and Brandybuck clans have defended their borders against invasion before, but not in memory of any living. And none of the hobbits are Rangers. Gildor's folk in Woody End might aid them, and I do not doubt the Elves of Mithlond and our kindred would stop them eventually. But by then many more lives would have been lost, and not just our own. We must turn them aside here."

"Aye," I agreed, settling my bow into a more comfortable position on my back, infinitely grateful that the burden of planning a method to turn back the raiding orcs did not lie on my shoulders. Yet.

Caran was looking at me again, and his eyes were grave. "Tell me, my lord--how long had you been at Fornost, before you were sent to us?" His voice was reflective, but I sensed some purpose in his query, as he watched the other warriors preparing to leave.

"A few weeks," I answered. "Before that I lived in the house of Lord Elrond, in Rivendell." I kept my voice carefully neutral, recalling how at this hour I would have been preparing to breakfast with my mother before going to Elrond for lessons. I forced away thoughts of my home, taking in the pine trees, the campfire, the Rangers, the river. The mission. The orcs.

"I know not how much experience you had of combat before you joined us," he said, picking up his pack and slinging it onto his back. "But to be raised by immortals gives you a different way of seeing all things. Death, life, and combat among them." He began to walk with a measured stride around the camp, checking the perimeter, watching the preparations.

"I have spoken to Halbarad," he continued, in what seemed to me an abrupt change of subject. "He told me how you brought him with you many miles, and how you cared for him."

I tensed, feeling a measure of the old doubt return. Surely, I thought, I was about to be chastised for my carelessness, for risking the mission. There was little I could say to defend myself, though I would have done the same again.

"He is a brave lad, and a good fighter, though young," Caran continued. "I have not known him long, but I know his father well. Halforth is my kinsman and my friend. I am glad Halbarad is alive and recovering." His voice was serious but not unkind. "For one new to our ways and new to the Wild, it is no small feat to bring a wounded man so far so quickly, and it speaks well of your resourcefulness, as well as your courage and loyalty, that you managed to accomplish both missions." He looked thoughtful. "I was raised by the Rangers, as was he. It is a life vastly different than yours was. As a child, a Ranger lives in hidden villages, in the Wild. These settlements move often, for security's sake. A child has only his mother to protect him, for his father is away at war, protecting the wives and children of others. It is not an easy childhood, and many of us have known grief, fear, and want from an early age. Death is not always visible, but he is always near."

Now and again he would pause, to acknowledge words of greeting from the other warriors, before he continued the circuit of the perimeter of the camp. "Do not think that I condemn your actions, for saving a comrade's life! For indeed I know not what decision I would have made in your place. It is not rebuke I give you, but a warning." He stopped and looked me in the eye. "It is not an easy choice that was asked of you, for one so young. For one raised by immortals it is even harder. But I say to you now, Aragorn Arathorn's son: a day will come when you must leave a comrade to die, when there will not be time or means to save him. One day you will have to sacrifice some so that others may live, or so that a mission may not fail. I was hardly older than you when first I learned this. I have left dear friends when they could have been saved, and slain by my own hand wounded men under my command, so that they would not fall into the enemy's hands. I fear it will be harder for you  
than for others, for you were not raised in our ways. Still you must be prepared to learn them, and learn them swiftly! For the Wild is a harsh teacher, and war harsher."

I stared at him, feeling something cold settle in the pit of my stomach. There was nothing to say, for I could hear the truth in his words, though they chilled my heart to hear. More than ever I wished for Rivendell, for deadly dull books and Elrond to make my decisions for me. Raised by immortals . . .

"I understand, Captain," I said after a moment, and my voice was steady.

"Do you?" he asked, very softly. He looked at me long, and I forced myself to meet his eyes, not to look away. "You will. One day, I fear, you will." He nodded sharply, as though satisfied, then turned and walked away.

Not long after that, Caran called us together in a circle about the campfire, explaining what Engroth's plan was and what our part would be. There were no fancy speeches, nor questions or grumbling from the men. Minutes later two Rangers were pouring dirt on the remains of the campfire, and a party of halflings had come with a litter to bear Halbarad to safety in Buckland.

There were few trees to hide us from view, so we proceeded straight up the Road. It had begun to snow again, and this time it was sticking, clinging to stiff blades of grass, a soft white coverlet spreading out over the gray countryside. Tiny, lacy flakes caught in our hair and dusted our cloaks, melting as they lit on our faces. Beregir and Hirion had taken up positions to either side of me, and every now and again they would glance at one another, with twin expressions that hovered ever just at the verge of laughter. Some sort of private joke, I supposed, that did not require words. The ways of the Rangers are strange, I reflected, and the ways of these two are stranger than most. I should have to ask Halbarad about them, whenever I saw him next.

They did not speak, however, and as we trudged on in silence my thoughts began to wander.

Yuletide in Imladris is like nothing most mortals have ever seen. No painter could wish for a more peaceful vista than the House of Elrond Halfelven, nestled between high cliffs, its gabled roofs frosted with powdery snow. Bare branches coated with ice sparkling in the morning sun, a carpet of perfect white covering the lawn.

Nowhere else is there a sight like the sun's last red light catching the cascade of a frozen waterfall, sending glittering rays sparkling along the cliff's face, or the glow of lanterns hung from trees, lighting the path to the great house at nightfall.

The Elves look to the West at Yuletide, when the sun sets. Elladan and Elrohir and I had a special tradition for this night, and we would hike hours through the snowy woods at evening, up the steep paths out of the valley. Standing at the edge of the dell, we looked down at Elrond's hidden refuge, at the source of the frozen waterfall, spilling its crystal splendor from beneath our feet.

No scene in the Misty Mountains, nor indeed in all Middle-Earth, is more beautiful, unless Arwen Undomiel be there. Looking down into the valley at sunset, Rivendell is a fair glowing jewel surrounded by a sea of mist. Beyond the mountains, we could see the farmlands of Eriador stretched out white before us, black rivers and gray hills, and the sun setting red in the far West from which there is no returning.

We would stand there watching in silence, watchful, reverent. Then, once the last light of the sun had faded, we would build a fire atop the cliff and roast mushrooms, and talk until the moon had risen and the stars shone down bright. Then together we would walk back to the great house and join the rest of Elrond's household in the Hall of Fire, and sing and listen and drink hot spiced cider and miruvor until dawn.

Some part of me reflected bitterly it was well that I would not be home this Yuletide, for I feared my brothers would not include me in our old ritual this time even if I were there, now they knew my feelings for their sister. I did not wish to see further proof that my family had rejected me, nor did I wish them to see how they had hurt me.

Caran raised a hand and we came to a halt, fanning out, half of us on one side of the Road and half on the other. Jerked back to reality, I looked up, my eyes meeting Hirion's where he stood across from me, but his face was expressionless now. We were passing now through a wooded area, and when they stood by the black trunks of leafless trees, the gray-clad Rangers seemed to melt into invisibility. Caran knelt in the middle of the Road, lying on his side, pressing one ear to the ground. He did not move for a long moment, and my hand moved to the hilt of my sword. Around me, others did the same, or stood still as statues. After what seemed an eternity, our commander sprang to his feet.

"They are close," he said quietly. "We will proceed no further, for we will soon be in the open, and we will find no better cover than these trees here before we meet them."

I looked around me, noting the slender, bare trees all about. Too few, and too far apart for my liking, but they would have to do. They might hide us enough to give us a few valuable seconds of surprise, but they were not thick enough to force the party of orcs to stay in a narrow column on the Road. I unslung my bow, wrapping one hand around the top, letting it rest upright against my leg. Trees or no trees, we were essentially in the open here. In my only other encounter with such creatures, they had been coming at us through a narrow mountain pass, with sheer cliffs on either side. It had been an ambush then, perfectly picked by Elladan and Elrohir, to catch them as they came one by one out of the pass. An open field, scattered trees or no scattered trees, is no place to plot an ambush, unless you are planning on dropping out of the sky.

"Have you ever fought orcs before?" Beregir's voice was a whisper at my side.

I nodded, keeping my face still. "Aye, I have, once."

He looked skeptical. "Have you ever fought orcs with Rangers?"

"Nay."

He leaned his own bow against a tree, where it was ready to hand. "Would you like some advice?"

"I would be grateful."

I was not afraid. No, of course not. I had done this before, and done it well, and been praised by Elrond and his sons.

Of course, there had been far fewer of them and far more of us, and I had had Elven archers beside me. But there was no time to think about that now.

"Aim low. The new lads always aim too high, and we can ill afford to waste our arrows, with the size of this company." I nodded without looking at him, scanning the Road ahead. There was nothing to be seen but silent snow. "And stay low as you can. Orcs tend to aim high, as well."

"That much I knew already," I assured him. The snow seemed to be falling heavier now. Well, that would make us harder to see, at least.

There was a low laugh from beside me, and Beregir swatted me on the shoulder. "And don't stay in the same place too long. These trees aren't big enough to shield you, once they figure out where your arrows are coming from."

"Aye," I responded, drawing an arrow from my quiver and testing the point with one finger.

"One more thing," he said. "When we close with them, swords out, yell. As loud as you can. Make as much noise as possible." I looked at him. "Trust me. It will disorient them, make them think we are more than we are. And it helps you to concentrate."

Helps you to concentrate? There was one Elrohir hadn't told me. "What do we yell?"

He shrugged. "It doesn't have to be a word. `Númenor' works for some, or `Elendil'. Halforth told me once that Engroth used to sing. Not sure I believe that."

I raised incredulous eyebrows. I was certain, beyond any doubt, that the Rangers would only laugh if I started singing in the middle of a battle. As for Engroth singing . . . Beregir only grinned briefly, then turned back to watching east.

I could not tell which of the dark shapes on the other side of the Road was Caran. The stand of trees had gone very silent of a sudden, and I wondered where Engroth and his company could be. They were to have attacked in concert with us, but if they came from the North they would have to approach us from across the open snowfields. Perhaps they intended to wait until we had already engaged the orcs, and the enemy was distracted?

"Trust me, my lord," Beregir said softly, and his smile seemed suddenly without humor, though not without understanding. "You cannot possibly fight as poorly in this skirmish as you think you will."

I turned, eyebrows raised. "And how would you know how badly I fear I will fight this day?" I asked. My attempt at a light, bantering tone felt forced.

He responded with a snort. "I don't. But I remember my first battles with the Rangers. `Tis not something one forgets soon, or ever." He looked across the Road at Hirion, then turned to stare east. His face was serious, intent, a concentration too deep for any distractions, even fear.

I was terrified.

The thought that I might die never once crossed my mind. Beregir had guessed closer to my true fears than I liked to admit. This was not a short excursion into the mountains to hunt orcs. Here the orcs were hunting us, and we had barely thirty and five men with which to turn them back. With so few, the actions of every man counted, and I felt keenly my own lack of experience in the wilderness. I knew nothing of these men's ways of fighting, their strategies, and that lack of knowledge could prove fatal not only to me, but to all of us, and to the peaceful farmers and the halflings to the west. I was the weakest point in this wall of men, and I knew it too well.

At times such as these the seconds seem to slow, and one perceives all around in the most excruciating detail, the rough texture of the bark of trees, the way the snow lights on one's gloves and slowly melts, the outside edges fading to water first, then the center. The smell of nervous sweat, and the reek of woodsmoke that lingered in all our clothes. The pattern the snowflakes made, streaming down thickly. The silence that hung, oppressive, over all things.

My head jerked up at a shrill note from across the Road. Some kind of bird-call, though I doubted any bird sang here. Beregir, too, lifted his head, and I gripped my bow harder, squinting into the snow. There was no sound, and all waited, straining into the void of silence that wrapped stiflingly close about us.

The response was faint, but so tense was I, listening so hard, that it seemed loud as the first, a different cadence, but the same whistling quality. I did not need to be told that Engroth was nearby.

"Echad hûr." Caran's voice was level, calm, and it took me a few moments to register that he had spoken in Elvish. "Dartha an ha."

I lifted my bow, adjusting my quiver so it was within easy reach. I wondered what signal Caran would give for us to attack, thinking that I knew none of the signals the Rangers used for such things. I took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly, a wisp of fog in the chill air. I would just watch Beregir, and shoot when he did.

We could hear them now. A faint, muffled sound, the overlapping tread of many feet in different rhythms, no marching in step for these. Here and there a clink of metal, barely audible, then growing louder and more frequent, weapons and armor, perhaps metal helmets. And voices, hoarse voices, at first a meaningless cacophony of sound, resolving into something that might once have been a tune, raucous singing in a doggerel I did not recognize.

I saw them before I realized what I was seeing. Through a screen of white, I could see the gray of the sky, and the fields beyond this little grove. Slowly the gray darkened to black, a black mass that seemed to move, as the white flakes drifted down in front of it. The hoarse singing continued, as with a start I made out the shape, sticking out above the rest of the blackness, of a spiked helmet of a make I had seen before, far away from here.

I turned to Beregir, and he had already nocked an arrow, and stood waiting. I set an arrow to my bow, drawing the string back. All around me Rangers were waiting, ready, still like stone. There was a sensation like falling in the pit of my stomach, and I breathed deeply, willing my heart to slow to some semblance of normal speed. You cannot possibly fight as poorly in this skirmish as you think you will.

Breathe. In, count three . . . one . . . two . . . three. Out. They are coming closer, swifter than I anticipated. They will be upon us in minutes. They do not know we are here.

Calm. Control. Pick a target, aim low. I focused on one shape, near the right side of the column, training my eyes on one orc. Forcing my mind to concentrate on details, the way his helmet covered his face, the gap between the top of his chestplate and the bottom of the headgear.

It was almost like archery practice. Focus on your target, concentrate, calm your mind. Precision. Clear your mind of all distraction. But I knew that after the first volley any resemblance to archery practice would be lost in chaos. My fingers tightened around the arrow, my arm straining to hold the bowstring taut, ready.

Focus. So had Elladan told me, nearly a year ago. But Elladan and Elrohir were not here now. I was not a boy fighting to prove himself a man, not anymore. Now I was a man fighting to prove himself worthy to lead a nation. And I feared I was far from equal to the task.

I could make out other individual orcs now, the black shapeless mass assuming form, no longer one darkness but many orcs . . . too many. Looking neither right nor left, yellow eyes showing in faces covered by metal helmets, wispy, straggly hair and pointed ears, a grotesque mockery of Elven features.

Do not look at them. Look at your target.

They were almost to the trees. I wished I had a hand free to check and make sure my sword was in easy reach. No time for that, not now. I imagined I heard Elrohir's voice at my shoulder.

"Take a deep breath. Release it slowly, slowly . . . do not take your eyes from the target! Breathe out. Now, hold your breath when you let the arrow fly!"

"Si!" A staccato exclamation, shattering the tension like glass. My fingers opened of their own accord, and there was a twang at my ear. Before my mind realized what had happened, I saw a black-feathered shaft sprout from my target's neck, and my arm had reached back and nocked another arrow to the bow. There was an explosion of sound, shouts, chaotic motion. Black shapes lying on the ground. Pick another. Looking right at me, huge yellow eye makes a perfect target. Breathe in, out. Loose. Only one yellow eye now, and another orc topples over.

Stay low. I drop to my knees, noticing I already have another arrow ready to fire, wonder how that happened. Reflexes are better than I thought. No shortage of orcs to shoot at. Pick one, loose. Three for three. Didn't know I could shoot so well. Flash of movement beside me, Beregir moving west, behind another tree. I move quickly, following. Don't stay in the same place too long. These trees aren't big enough to shield you, once they figure out where your arrows are coming from.

A loud thunk! near me catches my attention, and there is an arrow protruding from the bark of the tree in front of me, cracks running up and down the wood where it has hit. It looks thick . . . and painful. I duck a bit lower, pick another target, fire. They are beginning to regroup now, fanning out toward the trees. There are a lot of them . . . too many. They are confused now, but once they realize how few we are . . .

My hands move automatically. I am no longer counting. Find a patch of skin not covered by armor, draw, nock, aim, loose. Don't wait to see if it hit. I am hardly aware of the other gray-clad forms moving in the trees around me. There is only I, and the orcs. And they are moving out, searching for me.

And they are falling in the rear, now! The back rank suddenly crumples, and there is chaos once more, orcs who were moving purposefully into the woods now turning, looking for a new enemy. And a voice I knew well, bellowing in Elvish, a voice I had feared, and that the orcs would fear, too, if they had any sense.

"Bad, si! Rinc!"

Engroth was attacking.

Never had I been so glad to hear his voice. But I could not stop long enough to rejoice. Very foolish of the orcs, to turn their backs to me. They had not long to regret their foolishness. But I would soon run out of arrows, at this rate.

A blow to my shoulder, and I was sprawled on the ground, spitting out snow. The thunk of an arrow in wood sounded in the same instant, and rolling over I saw Beregir's sword flash, and an orc's head fall. The head rolled to lie facing me, dead yellow eyes staring into mine, black blood staining the snow. I sprang to my feet, drawing my sword.

"Meigol, soll!" Caran's voice rose above the cries, amazing that he could shout loud enough to make himself heard over such a din. And suddenly I could see the other Rangers of the Sarn Ford guard, a pitifully small band, rushing out to bar the Road west. Before I could think better of it I ran out to join them, leaving behind the limited shelter of the trees.

"Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!" No word, no inspirational cry leaving my lips at that attack, only as much noise as possible, as Beregir said. A confused jumble of images are all that remain in my memory of that battle. The sneering face of an orc inches from my own, so close I could smell his foul breath, see his uneven teeth bared in a snarl. The sickening crunch of metal against bone as my sword clove his neck. Somehow Beregir and Hirion were beside me, their faces transformed, contorted with a rage that made them nearly unrecognizable. Screams blended into one long, continuous ringing in my ears. For every one that fell at my feet, another rose to take his place. Their faces blur in my mind. When I think on it after, they all wear the faces of the first whose head fell beside me as I lay on the snowy ground.

I heard some cries of "Númenor!" and "Elendil!" Mixed with what I guessed must be orcish curses. Snarls and screams, and metal on metal. Someone cried "A Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" Was it me? I cannot tell. But the orc in front of me starts back at the words, before my sword finds the space between metal plates, driving through his armpit. Black blood sprays hot over my face, stinging my eyes, and I dash one arm across my face, blinking furiously. Blind for precious seconds, this is not good. Something heavy aiming for my head, swing up, parry. My arms vibrate with the shock of the contact.

I could see Engroth now, towering above the shorter orcs, moving too fast for me to follow his swordstrokes. There was a man they feared! And with reason. Corpses lay about him, piling about his feet. He did not shout, as the others did. Nor did he sing, whatever Beregir or Halforth might say. He was silent. He was implacable.

There was confusion in the center of the band, orcs uncertain which way to turn, enemies before them and behind them. My arms had a rhythm now, years of training with the Elves taking over, moves I had drilled and drilled, coming to me now naturally as breathing, leaving no room in my thoughts for doubt or fear. There were fewer orcs now between me and Engroth, and more behind. I was moving forward, I realized suddenly, cutting a path through the armored mass.

He had a dented helmet, the one who tripped me. That image stands out, among the blur. A dented helmet, a spike off-center and leaning, was the last thing I saw before I fell, my leg twisting under me. The enemy closed around me, the stink of metal and alien sweat, suffocating. Panic stabbed through me, scrabbling against the snow, my sword swinging upward blindly. Must keep your feet in a battle . . . get back on your feet, get back ON YOUR FEET!

Ranger boots in front of my face, a clash of metal just overhead, a strong hand around my upper arm, hauling me roughly up, effortless. Expressionless black eyes staring into mine, out of a fierce face framed by a lion's mane of gray-streaked, blood-soaked black hair. Engroth. Eyes swept over me, checking for injuries, and once my feet were on the ground again he released me, spinning around, hair sticky with blood striking my face.

He wasn't going anywhere, standing legs apart, setting his back against mine. We stood back to back, in the center of the storm, swirling eddies of battle foaming around us, breaking against us like waves against a rock. Engroth was a rock, a foundation, a solid anchor in the midst of chaos and darkness. I had no small skill with a sword, and with him at my back I was no longer afraid, of death or failure. I was aware of a burning fatigue in my arms, lifting again and again, swinging a sword that seemed to grow heavier and heavier, but the movements were instinct now. My leg throbbed, a wrenching ache, and I wondered how badly I had injured it.

Farther from us, black shapes milled uncertainly, or charged against gray-clad forms that seemed to flicker in and out of the trees.

A louder call, a raucous horn, and of a sudden the orc that was stabbing at me took a step back, turning to run toward the woods to the south of the Road. I did not pursue, standing behind Engroth, raising my sword in preparation for the next attacker who never came. In front of me, the orcs were all moving in the same direction again, this time across the Road, to the south, streaming away in retreat. I took a deep breath, sucking air into starved lungs, feeling the pain of fatigue stronger now that there was nothing to strike at. Looking this way and that, searching for Caran, wondering why Engroth did not order pursuit.

"Al aphad!" The commander's rough baritone carried over the noise of the retreat, and the Rangers stood fast, stretched loosely across the Road, barring the western passage. "Dartha, thala." My arms were trembling, and I let the point of my sword sink slowly down, to rest on the snow. The orcs were no longer heading west. They were not turning back east, either, but their progress had been halted.

I leaned on my sword, feeling the point sink an inch or two into the frozen ground, breathing hard as the Rangers came toward us, watching the orcs. Engroth stepped away from me, coming around to face me. I straightened, steeling myself to meet his dark gaze. He stared at me for a long moment, and something stirred deep in those eyes that I could not identify. I had an impression of a great confused torrent of emotion, replaced in an instant by an emptiness of desolation, before the fierce, blank mask snapped into place once more. He shook himself like a great lion, turning away, moving toward the others with no sign of weariness or pain.

Echad hûr--make ready

Dartha an ha--wait for it

Si--now

Bad, si! Rinc!--Go, now! Move!

Meigol, soll--swords, close

Al aphad--do not follow

Thala—steady


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

Halforth's eyes struck me when I looked up, as Engroth strode away. I expected a greeting, recognition, but he only stared at me with barely concealed shock, and a fleeting echo of sorrow. He turned without a word and followed Engroth.

A few of the older Rangers were giving me strange looks as well, but I was too tired and too relieved to wonder why. Running a rag down the blade of my sword, I sheathed the weapon and looked around for Beregir and Hirion.

As I had expected, they were side by side. Ignoring the carnage and the snow that fell thicker now, they were combing the ground methodically for arrows. Hirion looked up as I approached.

"Fine shooting, my lord," he said. Beregir, too, looked up, aiming a playful punch at my shoulder.

"Don't just stand there!" he scolded. "I hope you don't think routing a company of orcs twice our number gives anyone the right to stand around and rest! You're going to need more arrows soon enough, and I am certain you would rather steal from the orcs than make your own."

I stared at him. They both looked at me, expectant. Finally I only shook my head, punching his arm in return, and the two looked at each other and laughed. They kept on laughing for some time, as they continued to collect arrows from the quivers of dead orcs. It was a strange sight, but the other Rangers, collecting arrows of their own, or tending to their wounded comrades, looked on in tolerant amusement. These two must be well-known among all the companies.

Halforth and Engroth stood a little apart, consulting quietly. I was content to pick up those arrows that had missed their mark and fallen to the ground. I was still reluctant to touch the corpses of the orcs, or their weapons that were still attached to their bodies. A cursory examination showed that my leg was neither bleeding nor broken, but it was obvious I had fallen on it the wrong way. Every few steps pain shot though to my hip when I put weight on it. Still, it did not hinder my walking too much, and it would likely prove only an inconvenience.

Bending down to retrieve an arrow, I slipped on snow and fell to my knees. Picking up the shaft I saw red staining the snow nearby, and my first thought was that I had cut my hand on the arrowhead. A second glance proved me wrong, for I saw there was a wide patch of snow, far too wide, soaked with human blood. And the corpse next to me was not an orc, but a Ranger. Though I had not known him long, I knew Caran's face immediately.

I was not the first to find him. No orc had laid him out so, with his head pointed toward the West and his hands folded on his chest. His face was pale, and gentle snowflakes gathered on his eyelashes and in the dark gray of his hair. He might have been sleeping, save for the way his neck lay twisted at an impossible angle, and the raw, red, wet hole glistening at his throat.

I started back involuntarily, dropping the handful of arrows I had collected. I had never seen a dead man up close before.

I turned my back on the corpse and began methodically gathering up the arrows I had dropped, more shaken that I cared to admit, looking around, hoping none of the Rangers had seen my reaction. I stood slowly, a hollow feeling settling in my stomach. I had not known the man well, but he had been kind to me. And he had been alive, leading us, giving orders, only an hour before. And now he was dead.

Straightening, refusing to look at the corpse, I saw Halforth coming toward me. I could not yet muster a smile, but raised a hand in greeting.

He did not seem in the mood for smiling, either, though if he saw who lay behind me he made no sign. "My lord, are you well?"

I nodded, clasping his hand. "Aye. Is all well with you?"

"Aye." His eyes were unusually bright, his face searching. "For which I have you to thank. I have been told 'twas you saved my son's life."

Somewhat embarrassed, I nodded again, not sure what to say. "He is well, though weary," I assured him, "and he is recovering. He stayed with the halflings, for he was too weak yet to come with us."

"I am in your debt," he said abruptly, clearing his throat, watching me with that same intense gaze. A lot of people seemed to be saying that to me lately.

"Halbarad is a brave man, and a fellow Ranger," I said. "I am glad I was able to aid him."

The other Rangers had finished combing the field and were now gathered in a loose knot at the center of the Road, tightening belts, shifting packs, preparing to move out. There were fewer of them than there had been this morning, maybe twenty of us in all. Many of the older men were watching me, I could see out of the corner of my eye, with much the same veiled shock as Halforth had shown first. Those who were not looking at me were watching Engroth.

The commander of the Fornost guard stood alone, a little up the Road. Rigid as granite, he stared away from us. He had not moved since Halforth left him to speak to me.

Finally I turned to Halforth, inquiring softly. "Have I done something amiss? Why do they all look at me thus?"

Halforth was still a moment before he answered. "They always fought thus," he said, his voice strangely rough. He turned away, staring up the Road through the snow at Engroth. "Back to back, in the center of the battle."

I frowned. "Who did?"

He spoke slowly, his face betraying only a hint of cautious wonder, and not a little sorrow. "Engroth and your father. Always. When they stood together thus none could stand against them. And today-when you fought your way to his side, all of us old enough to remember your father saw him again."

I stared at him, feeling a shiver run through me. "I see." Though I knew somewhere deep inside that I did not, and maybe never would. "What will we do now?"

Halforth seemed to tear his eyes away from Engroth, turning back to me, and the present, with an effort. "We have not turned the orcs back," he told me grimly. "They merely fell back a ways, to wait for cover of nightfall. When night comes they will come again, and by that time we must be far from here."

"We will flee? What of the Shire?"

"We have bloodied them badly, and they will not forget it. These will leave the Shire alone and pursue us. At least Engroth builds his plan on that assumption, and I believe it is a fair one. If we can remain ahead of them long enough, we can lead them into ambush."

I nodded. Well it was that Engroth was in command, not I, for I knew not enough of the country to make such a strategy. "Where will we find other Rangers? I know not where the other guards are placed."

Halforth shook his head grimly. "It is not to other Rangers that we go. The largest guard we might reach in time was at Tharbad, and no one is there who will aid us. Our people do not keep many stationary camps. The greater part of our strength move about, in groups much smaller than this, for we seldom encounter a raiding party so large. We are few, and must needs be spread too thin, over too great a territory. We have no way of contacting or gathering enough of our kinsmen in time." He shifted his pack and moved toward the assembled Rangers. "Nay, it is to Imladris we go."

Engroth turned then, as my eyes widened, and I reflected with a bitter irony that my prayer to return home was about to be answered. Though what manner of homecoming this would be I dared not guess.

Engroth's face was utterly still, hinting at some great depth of emotion that lay hidden just beneath the surface. His stride was that of a wolf on the hunt, all energy barely suppressed and waiting to be released in some explosion of violence. He did not look at me, and for this I was grateful.

"Leave all that can be spared," he ordered harshly. Everyone straightened automatically at that tone. This was not a man you wanted to push, not now. "We travel light, and we travel swiftly. Ere nightfall, we shall be pursued." He glared fiercely round, and I forced myself not to flinch when that black gaze lit on me, empty eyes burning into mine, before he looked away at Halforth. "We make for Amon Sûl, and we have no time to rest here. Move out!" The last words cracked out like a whip. We swung into line behind him.

"Well now we know why Engroth isn't happy," Beregir muttered to me. He and Hirion and I had fallen in near the back of the column, where men conversed in low voices as we trudged on through the snow. We held to a swift pace, pressing on despite snow and cold and weariness.

The rush of excitement that had sustained me through the battle and its aftermath had faded, leaving me painfully conscious of muscles strained and sore. Pain in my leg had dulled to a constant throbbing ache, which I could almost ignore if I concentrated on staying in step with Hirion in front of me. "Why are we going to Amon Sûl? Halforth said something about Imladris."

Beregir let out a breath of laughter. "Small wonder Engroth doesn't like you! I forget sometimes you were not raised by us. Amon Sûl was once a watchtower, in the days when Arthedain was strong."

"I did know that," I informed him with an irritated look.

Hirion turned to look back at us, and Beregir gave him a grin that filled me with foreboding. But he only continued, "After the watchtower was destroyed, the hill was used as a beacon. It is still the highest point between the Misty Mountains and the Blue, and if we light a fire atop the summit it can be seen in Imladris."

Elrond had never told me that. "So Elrond will send out reinforcements to aid us?"

The two exchanged a glance I could not interpret. "Unlikely," Hirion told me. "Lord Elrond's sons might come, save that they have no way of knowing which way we take, nor how many follow us. But the fire will tell him that a company is retreating across the Bruinen, and that we are pursued closely by enemies. We have only to make it to the crossing at the Ford, and once we are across the Elves have some sorcery that will make the river rise and drown our enemies."

I had indeed heard tell that Elrond could flood Bruinen, though I had never seen it done. "And Engroth does not wish to go to the Elves for aid?" I hazarded.

Hirion gave a short laugh. "You have a talent for understatement, my lord!" His face grew serious. "None of us wish it, in truth," he said slowly. "Engroth has his own feud with the Elves that I am not old enough to remember, and none of the older warriors will tell me what is the reason. But while they have been our allies a long time in this war, there is little love lost between our two races."

I frowned at them. "Lord Elrond and his kin have never shown me aught but kindness!" I protested. Until I dared to suppose I was worthy to love his daughter, I added bitterly to myself. Some shadow must have been visible in my face, for Beregir looked at me shrewdly.

"Yet even you, I guess, have found you are not considered their equal in all things," he commented. His words struck a little too close to the mark for my comfort. "They are a noble people and honorable, but they are too different from us for there to ever be understanding or love between us. Any man would admire the beauty of their songs, the loveliness of their living forests, the depth of their lore. But to a man who spends all his life fighting hand-to-hand with creatures of darkness in the Wild, there cannot but be some resentment toward those that live a thousand years amid such peace and bliss. The Elves aid us, it is true, but none of those in Imladris save the sons of Elrond have fought in a battle since the end of the Second Age."

"Life is short for us, compared to that of the Eldar. Life is short, and it is often bitter. Information they give us, and sanctuary when we need it, as now. But to a warrior the dearest friend is always him that fights at his side, and his kin those who have known the same grief and the same pain. What means the Doom of Man, or the fight against the Nameless, to one who at any time can forsake these shores and sail to an island where the Enemy cannot reach?"

She is of lineage greater than yours, and she has lived in the world already so long that to her you are but as a yearling shoot beside a young birch of many summers . . . The words of Elrond echoed in my mind, and in my memory I saw again the glades of Imladris where I had seen Arwen walk not so long ago. A different view, indeed, than this column of ragged Men marching through the snow across the barren white heath. A different lifestyle, unbridgeable gulf in understanding. "Do all the Rangers feel the same?" I asked.

"We do not all feel as Engroth does!" Beregir hastened to assure me. "We fight the same enemy, and we each give aid to the other when we can. But friendship between the Eldar and the Edain is a rare thing, and such is not surprising between two peoples so different. But do not mistake me! There will always be a welcome here for you, regardless of your own past. Indeed, it is said your father counted Elrond's sons as friends, and he was loved by all our people, if the older warriors are to be believed."

We camped that night on the South Downs, several hours after night had fallen. The snow had finally stopped, and the clouds were slowly parting, coming apart like tufts of wool, revealing stars scattered like chips of ice across the sky. The hills were covered in snow, and leading away west behind us in the dim light I could see the clear tracks of our footprints.

On halting, I let myself sink to the ground, wondering hopefully if Engroth would decide it was safe to light a fire. This did not seem to be in his plans, however, as most of the men were already selecting patches of ground to sleep on, brushing snow away and unrolling blankets. I knew we would get little rest this night, for orcs move swiftly after dark, and we could not allow them to catch us until we were at the Ford, which was several days away yet.

I was exhausted. It seemed scarcely possible that it had been only a day since I brought Halbarad to Sarn, less than twenty-four hours since I last slept. I marveled that I had remained on my feet through the whole grueling march, for Engroth kept up an unforgiving pace. My leg was too numb from cold to hurt much, but my feet ached, and I could no longer feel my hands. My shoulders felt rubbed raw from the straps of my pack, and my back cracked painfully as I let my burdens fall to the ground and tried to stand straight. I wanted nothing more than to lie upon the cold ground and sleep, with or without fire.

But I was curious, and Halforth had been assigned the first watch. It was less than ten minutes since we halted, but all the Rangers now lay stretched upon the ground with all appearance of being fast asleep. Apparently these knew how to snatch what rest they could when the chance presented itself. All but Halforth, who watched west for pursuing orcs.

And Engroth, who sat in silence at the other end of the camp, brooding over I knew not what.

And I, who moved as silently as I could to sit beside Halforth. He looked up as I approached. "You should take some rest, my lord," he said softly.

"I know," I answered him. "But my mind is troubled, for there are many things I do not understand yet."

He turned to face me, and I could hardly make out his expression in the darkness. "I will do my best to answer your questions, my lord."

I drew my knees up to my chest, staring down the hill at the clear trail we had left. Now I had his undivided attention, I was uncertain what to say, where to start. What to ask when I knew next to nothing of the situation, save that I had somehow unknowingly erred.

I jerked my head in the direction of Engroth. "Does he ever sleep?"

"Occasionally." Halforth's answer was dry. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. I disliked asking these things of another, when I should question Engroth directly, but something told me he did not wish to speak to me.

"Is there aught I have done amiss, that he hates me so? Or is it simply that I was not raised by the Rangers, as he was?" Halforth was silent awhile, and I feared that I had somehow offended him as well. "Forgive me, perhaps I should not have asked-"

"He does not hate you." Halforth's voice was soft, and he did not look at me. "And as for being raised by the Rangers, he was not. His family were all slain when he was very young, and he was raised among the Dunlendings."

My eyebrows went up. He did not elaborate, and I said nothing for a while, considering this. "Halbarad . . ." I paused. "Halbarad said he hates the Elves. Is that why . . .?" I trailed off.

His eyes glinted in the darkness, but the rest of his face was in shadow. "That is not for me to speak of."

Engroth has his own feud with the Elves that I am not old enough to remember, and none of the older warriors will tell me what is the reason. Hirion's words came back to me, and I turned away with a soft hiss of frustration. Something personal, by the way Halforth was acting. But whatever it was, it made Engroth unwilling to come within fifty feet of me unless forced to, and if I was to one day command these men I could not afford to alienate those who would be my senior lieutenants, particularly if I did not understand the reason why. In such a company as this, we all depended on one another, that much was obvious by now to me.

"Was there some feud between Engroth and my father?" I tried again, praying Halforth would understand, and not dismiss me for my temerity and tell me it was none of my business.

He turned to me sharply, and though I could not see clearly I sensed surprise in his manner. He did not say anything, and I resisted the urge to apologize, to back off and trouble him no more. Finally he shook his head. "No," he said, so softly I could barely hear. "No, there was never any feud between them." He looked away, his shoulders rigid.

I had obviously disturbed him, though I was unsure why. I reached out a hand, touched his shoulder tentatively. "Forgive me . . ."

"There is nothing to forgive," Halforth said, his voice steady once more. "Your presence brings back memories for him, of events he would rather forget. This is no fault of yours, for indeed you could not have acted other than you have done. You must have patience, that is all. Engroth knows his duty." I could barely hear his soft sigh, but I saw his eyes close briefly. "Go and get some sleep, my lord. You will need it."

I stood, not sure what to say, if anything. So I bid him good night, and wrapped myself tighter in my cloak to take what sleep I would be allowed.

As I had expected, we were roused well before dawn. It had snowed again in the night, though not much. I shook the snow out of my cloak, pulling the now damp wool around me in a vain attempt to stay warm. Halforth and another of the older Rangers were rousing the others, while Engroth stood where he had sat last night, watching the preparations with what I guessed must be a baleful glare, though I could not make out his face in the darkness. I wondered if he had slept at all.

Pulling a few dry, crumbled biscuits out of my pack, I headed over to where Beregir and Hirion were arm-wrestling. Shaking my head doubtfully at their antics, I called across the camp. "Shouldn't you two be-"

I stopped short, as my foot hit a rock covered by snow, and slid out from under me. Swiping the snow out of my hair, I sat up slowly, wincing as I realized I had hit my shin rather hard on that rock, hoping that in the darkness, no one had noticed Isildur's Heir falling flat on his face.

It was not a very remarkable rock, though I suspected I would have a rather remarkable bruise soon. But as I was about to rise, my eyes were caught by a strange sort of markings.

On the dark gray of the stone I perceived darker lines, in a pattern that was unfamiliar to me. Some where Elvish letters I recognized, but their arrangement formed no words I knew, and there were other characters I had never seen before.

Booted feet crunched on the snow near me, and I looked up to see a tall figure above me, though I could not make out his features. "Do you know what this means?"

The Ranger stiffened, but after a moment he dropped to his knees beside me. It was Engroth, his face half hidden in shadow. He did not even glance at me, only peered at the stone.

Whatever it was, it obviously meant something to him, for his features were knit in concentration. Some sort of Ranger code? He turned, looking past me toward the south, in the direction of the Greenway from Tharbad to Sarn Ford. I got the impression he was calculating rapidly in his head.

Then he looked at me. His face was still, and in the dim light looked like a stone statue, older than Arnor and weathered by the elements. But the look in his eyes reminded me of nothing so much as the pressure drop before a storm.

"Halforth!" He looked back at the markings on the stone, but otherwise he did not move. At the tone of his voice all the Rangers leapt to their feet, standing frozen, watching. Halforth's footsteps coming toward us sounded loud in the ensuing silence.

It was still dark, but even so I could see Halforth's face grow pale as he read examined the markings. He and Engroth exchanged a look. I was about to ask what it said, when Engroth rose and addressed the silent Rangers. "We will make all speed due south. Now!"

And with no further words he turned his back to the dim, tall shape of Amon Sûl to the north, striding down the hill southward. Wordless, we followed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

"What has happened?" I whispered to Hirion, as we half-jogged along near the back of the line. "Why are we changing direction?"

There was little conversation now. We were moving too swiftly, and the mood of the column was one of palpable tension and no little fear. Besides Engroth and Halforth and myself, none of the Rangers had seen whatever was written on the stone, but whatever fell mood had fallen on those two seemed to be affecting them all. We had kept to this pace for nearly an hour now with no slowing, and no change in direction. We were still heading due south, with our backs to our previous destination, straight across the open white plain. At first I had thought perhaps we were going around some obstacle, but it seemed clear now that our destination was no longer Amon Sûl. And knowing what I knew of how fast orcs can move at need, I feared what might cause Engroth to risk such a delay as this detour would cause.

"I know not, but I fear it cannot be good!" Hirion responded, without looking back at me. "The Rangers often leave signs for one another, to indicate their passage, their destination, or to warn of dangers on the road. What the signs you found said I cannot know, for I did not see them. But someone has passed that way not long ago, someone who knows our secret signs. Perhaps they were a small party, moving in a direction that would take them too close to the raiders, in which case we go to intercept them before they run afoul of the orcs. Or perhaps they warned of some danger between the downs and Amon Sûl that is worse than that behind us, and we turn aside to flee from it. More than that I cannot say!"

He said no more, and I turned my efforts toward keeping the pace of the men in front of me. The sun was rising over the mountains to the east, bleeding red light across the sky. Far to the south, the horizon was obscured by a wrack of dark clouds, while over our heads now the sky was clear. Such gave me the sense that we ran from light into darkness, closer with every stride, every foot of ground that passed beneath our hastening feet.

One develops a rhythm, in running such as this. When you start out the soles of your feet hurt each time they strike the earth. You stumble over uneven ground, and silently curse the snow that gives way beneath you with each step. Cold air burns your lungs, and you struggle to draw breath enough to go on. Sore and wrenched muscles protest painfully at the movement, and you are certain that you cannot go on much longer.

But there is a point at which it becomes automatic, where your breathing finds a rhythm and your feet move in time with those others near you. Your mind slows down, aware only of the beat of your footsteps, unconsciously keeping the rhythm steady. When I would run with Elladan and Elrohir in the vales of Imladris, I would pick out objects to mark my progress, focusing my attention first on a tree some hundred feet ahead, then a rock further on when I passed the tree. Here there were no landmarks, only the vast flat white that spread out unmarred before us like an endless frigid desert, with nothing save the sun and the mountains to tell us even which direction we went.

And yet we ran. On, toward we knew not what, held to the path by eight words of Engroth's, and his tall form at our head, leading us. No landmarks, no other sign of human life, only each other, and the knowledge of enemies pursuing.

Only faith.

There is a unity among these men, of a depth I am just beginning to sense. With no conscious effort we all run nearly perfectly in step, none falling behind, none faltering. I was more than a little surprised to find myself holding to the pace still after so long a time, running in concert with the others, as though I had long been a part of this band. No words were spoken, and none of us knew completely where we headed or to what end, but under the tension there was a purpose, a driving force that held the Rangers together. It was not a thing one could see, or touch, but it was emphatically there. Even I could feel it, and by my proximity to them be swept up in it, bound to all of them in some way I could not explain.

We halted only once that day, when the sun had risen high overhead, casting a pale, cold light across the snow. It happened suddenly-Engroth raised a hand, shouted one word I could not distinguish, and the column fell out, dispersed, slowing to a halt and fanning out to catch our breath.

Strange it is how exhaustion waits till one is standing still, before one feels it most. I wanted nothing more than to fling myself full length upon the ground, but I did not doubt we would be moving soon, and I knew from experience that such would only make my legs more stiff when we started running again.

And now might be my only chance to ask Halforth whither we ran, and why.

The other men walked slowly in circles, breathing hard, or stood in one place, leaning upon their comrades. Engroth, as usual, showed no fatigue, but paced back and forth in front of us, as though eager to be off again, impatient with our human weakness. But this was no time to ponder the enigma that was our commander, for I knew he would not let us rest for long.

"Halforth," I breathed, coming up behind the other man and touching his shoulder lightly. It was a moment before he turned, and his face told me instantly that whatever the message said, it told of something gone seriously wrong.

His face was tense, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and in his eyes there was the shadow of some great fear barely controlled. He reached out, one hand grasping my arm.

"What has happened?"

He drew a long breath, and his fingers tightened hard around my wrist. "We know not yet, though I fear it is something terrible." He glanced over at Engroth, who had stopped pacing and was watching the others. "The Rangers leave such signs in the Wild, when they travel, for others of their kin to read. Those who passed the South Downs and left the signs you found were bound straight south, nearly two weeks ago."

I looked up, staring toward the wrack of clouds in the south. "Two weeks ago, if Halbarad told me aright, the orcs would just have reached Tharbad," I said. "These warriors might not have been moving as quickly as we move now, but they should have been across the Greenway before the orcs passed. They should be in no danger."

Halforth shook his head. "You misunderstand me, my lord," he said softly. "I do not speak of warriors. The party who passed that way were perhaps fifty women and children." He looked down at the snow, and his voice was hoarse. "They know something of travel in the Wild," he said. "But they do not move near so fast." Dark green eyes met mine. "One of them was my wife."

We stared at each other. I could see in my mind once again the smoke rising black from ruined farmsteads in Bree-land. Some instinct prompted me to reach for my sword, fingers clenching hard around the hilt.

Engroth's voice reached us then, a sharp command, and the column was moving again.

It was nearly midnight when we stopped again. Clouds had once again covered the sky, and with no stars to guide us, we had to wait until the sun rose enough for us to see the mountains.

Engroth took the watch that night, and all of us lay down where we stood. Still I could not sleep.

My eyes were drawn to Halforth, lying still wrapped in his cloak, his slow breathing telling me that even he was asleep. It was a measure of the man's experience in the Wild, and a kind of discipline I could not begin to imagine, that in spite of fear for his family he could close his eyes and be asleep in seconds. I knew even as he did that none of us could keep up such a pace long without rest, and that if we exhausted ourselves on the journey we could aid these women and children but little if any survived. But I had not much of his discipline and none of his experience, and though I knew I should rest I could not quiet my mind enough to sleep.

It was Caran's face that I could not forget, lying on the wet snow and staring at the starless, cloudy sky. Grave and lined, his eyes dark with the hard wisdom of many years of war.

As a child, a Ranger lives in hidden villages, in the Wild. These settlements move often, for security's sake. A child has only his mother to protect him, for his father is away at war, protecting the wives and children of others. It is not an easy childhood, and many of us have known grief, fear, and want from an early age. Death is not always visible, but he is always near.

So he had told me once, and I had nodded politely, and filed the facts away for future contemplation, another aspect of Ranger life that I had known nothing of before then. Now I wished I had questioned him further. Did the women of the Rangers learn to use the sword, then, to protect their children? For indeed no one else would, it seemed, if they did not. I knew my mother had a sword, hanging above the mantle in our house in Imladris, but I had never seen her use it, nor heard her speak of it. Always I had assumed it was her father's.

Death is not always visible, but he is always near.

I tried to imagine a group of fifty women and children traveling without any armed escort so great a distance through the Wild of Eriador, and found myself fervently hoping that these women were more proficient with weapons than any I had known among the Elves. Although how any group of women, burdened by young children, could hope to take on the force of orcs that had nearly overrun us was beyond my imagining.

Every part of my body ached with fatigue, but my eyes remained wide open, and I could not begin to try to sleep. I wanted to move on, to reach the Greenway and find out if our fears were justified, to end this unbearable tension and uncertainty that gripped each of us. But at the same time I feared to discover what answer waited for us.

It was a few hours after dawn when we found them. We saw the trees first, and fixed on them as a landmark and a possible campsite. One of the older men was the first to make out the black, charred pole that had once supported a tent. Minutes later we perceived a black shape moving erratically toward us.

We stopped, falling out in a rough half-circle, bows ready. It soon became clear, however, that whatever approached was being driven by random gusts of wind, and under no power of its own. It had once been a piece of a tent. Stiff deerhide, once a soft brown, was now black and crumbling away at its ripped and burned edges.

None of us wanted to touch it, but at last Engroth lifted it gently. At the touch of his hands, half of it seemed to crack away and flutter to the ground, sending black specks drifting down to light on the unmarked snow.

Not one word was spoken. There was no smoke rising from the direction of that copse of trees, so whatever had happened here had ended long ago. Too late we had come to warn or aid, and now we had not even time to spare to bury the bodies, if any were here.

Engroth let the cloth fall. Still with no word, he walked out in front of us, slowly at first, then striding swiftly toward the pines and the terrible, lonely tent-pole.

The women had camped just off the Greenway, in front of a small copse of pines. Just behind, the branches swayed gently in the cold breeze, heavy with snow. The ground beneath the boughs was clear of white, under a soft carpet of needles.

In front of the trees, an inch of snow glazed over the horror that lay beneath.

The lone pole swayed in the wind, creaking. We walked slowly forward, hardly breathing as we saw irregular shapes hidden beneath the snow. Some were heartbreakingly small. I shivered, sinking slowly to my knees, brushing the snow gently away from one dead face.

The snow was still powdery, and came away with little effort. My breath caught at what lay beneath, and my other hand touched the hard ground, keeping me from falling over. She emerged as if from under a sea of white. I was wearing gloves or I might have felt how cold the skin was. The face was tinged with yellow, but there was no other color in it at all, save for the line of blue that was her lips. Below her chin blood congealed, frozen, a splash of startling color against the deathly pallor of the corpse's features. Black hair, streaked with gray, spread out loose behind the head. Ice crystals clung to milky eyes, wide open, staring. I knew the faces of these women would haunt my dreams.

Around me I was aware of other Rangers searching, searching for faces they knew, perhaps. Halforth knelt once beside me, peered into the face I had uncovered, then rose quickly. Of all the others, only Engroth stood silently, watching. I did not turn to look at him, but I could see him out of the corner of my eye, and part of me was grateful for his solid, commanding presence, that did not break down even in the face of the ultimate horror. We still had someone to look to.

Not all the dead were Dúnedain. Some of us uncovered corpses of orcs, more than one. These women had given a good account of themselves, it was obvious. But it had not been enough.

I rose, turning away from the campsite and stumbling toward the trees. I had seen enough. There was nothing for us to do here. I remembered the smoke rising along the Road as I had traveled to the Sarn. Had I passed this settlement by, unaware? Somewhere deep inside I knew one man could have done nothing against so large a company, but I was not thinking of that now. The snow thinned as I reached the trees, leaning against a massive pine, pounding my fist against the trunk. A branch dipped, soft needles brushing my face, tickling gently. I leaned my forehead against the rough bark, closing my eyes.

I heard footsteps near me. Looking up, I watched as Halforth and another of the older Rangers walked slowly past. Halforth's eyes caught mine a moment.

"Is she . . .?"

He shook his head. "She is not here."

I frowned. We had searched only a small area so far, but was it possible there were survivors?

And what would we do if there were? We ourselves were no match for the company that pursued us too closely to permit us to safely go out of our way. Even if we turned aside to look for survivors, we might well lead the orcs to them, instead of drawing them away.

Something on the ground caught my eye, and I dropped to my knees again, lifting a piece of what looked like jade, in the shape of an arrowhead, strung on a cord of leather.

"Halforth?"

He knelt beside me, snatching the object from me and running a finger reverently over it. "Where did you find this?" His voice was hoarse.

I pointed to the ground.

"This was my wife's," he said. "And I do not believe it would have been let drop by accident."

"Some kind of sign?" I ventured.

"Aye, but meaning what?" The other man came to join us. "Halforth, there are tracks here."

The other's head shot up. The three of us bent over the soft pine needles, where no snow had fallen to obscure a trail. The signs were faint, but they were there. Heading due south, disappearing into the snow some hundred meters away where the trees stopped.

"It was in this direction the arrowhead was pointed," I told them. Halforth looked at me.

"A signal, most likely, and one it is lucky the orcs did not see," he said. He turned to the other Ranger. "Rohar, how many would you say passed this way?"

"Twenty, maybe thirty," he said. "At least half were children."

The two looked soberly at the earth. I turned to look over my shoulder at Engroth, who was standing in the same place he had since we arrived. I might have been deceived by distance, but from where I was his expression looked not fierce, but rather lost, and hopeless, as a man who knows not where to turn. I remembered what Halforth had told me of our commander's childhood, and shivered.

"The orcs will track us to this place," I said, distracting Halforth and Rohar from contemplation of the trail. "When they do, what are the chances they will notice this trail? And will they follow ours, or that of the women and children?"

"They will notice it, of that there can be no doubt," Rohar said grimly. "They will most likely stop here for a time to make certain they did not miss anything when they despoiled the corpses when they were last here. But the trail of the survivors vanishes beyond these trees."

"Orcs do not track as we do," Halforth reminded him. "They follow scent, not footprints. The snow will hinder them but little. And they will follow the weaker prey, I do not doubt."

"What can we do?" I asked, seeing in my mind the ragged group of some twenty women and children struggling through the snow as swiftly as they could. Not swiftly enough to escape the orcs.

"We can stay here and meet them again in combat, and seek to delay them that the women may have more time to get away. But we are too few, and all would perish, and we could buy little time. The women do not even know they are pursued, and they cannot move swiftly with children." Halforth's voice was strained. "We can hope that the orcs will not notice the trail, and continue toward Imladris. Or we can follow the women and hope we reach them before the orcs do, and try to bring them with us to Imladris. There they would be safe, if we can only reach the vale."

"What are our chances of making it that far?" I asked, not at all sure I wanted to hear the answer.

"We know not how close behind us they are, but I would say they are slim," Rohar told me. "They were fair, for a company of Rangers in straight course from Sarn to Bruinen. With two detours, one to Amon Sûl and one to get here . . . and then with women and children slowing us down . . ."

"We cannot leave them!"

"We cannot," Halforth agreed with me. "Still you should know we have little chance of doing what we set out to do. An ill fate, that thou shouldst meet thy father's doom so soon."

I stared at him, inexplicably touched that he would show such concern for me, when his wife was in danger. But I understood somehow that whatever bound these men to each other-whatever had bound them to my father-now bound them to me, and there was no way I could reject that unity, whether I deserved it or no.

Halforth turned, walking toward Engroth, holding the jade pendant. We followed, trying not to look at the corpses. Only their faces were visible now, pale smudges against dead white, seeming to watch us.

Engroth did not look up when we approached.

"Captain," Rohar said.

It was a long while before he looked at us. He said nothing.

"We have discovered a trail in the pines. And this." Halforth held up the pendant. "There are survivors, somewhere south."

Engroth looked at him blankly. The emptiness in his eyes frightened me. Halforth touched his arm.

"Captain?"

Engroth stepped away, walking slowly toward the trees. He stopped some hundred paces from the nearest tree, and stood silently. Halforth, Rohar and I looked at each other.

There was a loud thunk! that sounded then, echoing in the tomb-like silence. All the Rangers jumped to their feet. I was surprised to find my sword in my hand, not knowing how it got there. At first I thought an arrow had struck someone, or a tree, but all were on their feet, and the sound had been too loud for an arrow.

Wheeling, we saw Engroth turn and stumble, falling to his knees in the snow. I looked around frantically for enemies, seeing no one and nothing but our own and the dead. Halforth and several others ran to Engroth.

A loud cracking made us all freeze. One of the pines, maybe twelve inches in diameter, was swaying from more than the wind. Near the ground, just above the base, the blade of a sword stuck quivering, laying lengthwise in a gaping wound that had sheared through half the trunk. My mouth hung open, and I am sure I was not the only one. No one moved as the trunk cracked, swaying, fibers of wood splitting and rending with agonizing slowness.

There was a loud tearing, then a split second of silence that seemed to hover, unending. Then a crash, as the ground beneath our feet vibrated at the shock, the young tree falling full length upon the snow not far from us with a great rustling of needle-laden branches. The sword fell softly to the earth, the hilt sticking in the snow, blade propped against the jagged tree-stump.

Engroth was uninjured, as far as any of us could tell. He knelt with his head bowed, unmoving. He did not respond when Halforth spoke to him, nor even to the others shaking his shoulder. The scabbard at his side was empty.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

"What has happened?"

Beregir's voice startled me, making me whirl about as he and Hirion came to stand beside me.

The younger men of the company were gathering behind them, speaking in soft voices and casting uncertain glances at one another, and the older Rangers were clustered near the pines where Halforth and Rohar knelt by Engroth. Whatever had happened, the younger Rangers seemed to know no more than I did.

"I know not," I answered. "We found tracks in the pines, survivors, maybe twenty or thirty."

Swift looks were exchanged. One of them, a young man I recognized from the Sarn guard, looked at me. "What course shall we take now, my lord?"

He used the title like he expected me to have the answers. "I know no more than you," I said. "Less, even. I do not know even who will command us, if Engroth-" I didn't finish, and the others looked at the ground. None seemed to want to look toward their fallen chieftain.

As they looked up, I realized uneasily that all were looking at me. Most were at least a few years older than me, and had grown up in the Wild. Yet they looked to me to speculate on what had happened and what it might mean, or to approach Engroth and find out.

Halforth stood as I walked toward them. The rest of the older men looked up, their eyes grave but not confused. Whatever had occurred, these understood the mind and heart of their leader, and I had the sense I was intruding on something deeply private, something I could not begin to comprehend.

If any of the others thought so, they made no sign. Halforth nodded to me. "My lord."

Engroth still knelt with his head bowed, and did not react any of the Rangers speaking softly to him. I had no idea what to say, so I started with the obvious. "Is he wounded?"

There was a deep sorrow in Halforth's face. "Not in body, my lord," he said finally. "But there are other wounds not so easily seen."

That much was clear. "Will he be able to lead us from here?"

Footsteps crunched behind me, and out of the corner of my eye I saw Beregir and Hirion coming closer. "Nay," Halforth answered wearily. "I fear not."

The rest of the younger Rangers were drifting over to gather around us. "What shall we do now?"

"I do not know." He looked at Engroth, then back at me, but he said nothing.

"We cannot linger here!" I said. "We have little enough time already."

"Aye, we cannot," he agreed. "We know the direction the survivors took when they left this place, but beyond the trees their tracks will disappear for a time. We can only hope they will not deviate from their course, and we can pick up their trail soon."

"Should we not move out as swiftly as possible?" I asked.

He regarded me steadily. "We await your order, my lord."

My order?

The men standing around Engroth were looking at me, now, too, I realized. I stared at Halforth. "Do not mock me!" I said. "You cannot be serious."

"This place is yours, as it was your father's," Halforth said, quiet but assured. "Engroth was only holding it for you, since his death."

"I cannot command these men!" My voice was little more than a fervent whisper. "I know nothing of the Wild, nothing of your ways of fighting! Why cannot you lead us? Even the youngest of us has more experience than I."

"You knew enough to bring my son from Bree to Sarn safely," he reminded me. "We all have experience, of some sort, but only you are your father's son."

"You must know this is madness!" I took his arm, drawing him away from the others, not wanting to proclaim my own incompetence before the others, but I had make him see! "I am not ready, you know that. All here know it. Our chances of surviving this chase are slim enough even with an experienced chief!"

"In the Wild, my lord, you will find that whether or not you are ready makes little difference to anyone." There was understanding there, but no sign of sympathy. "I was first tested as a boy long before I was ready-and so I fear my son has been." A shadow crossed his face. "It is a harsh life we lead, and a harsh destiny to which you were born. We take on this duty gladly, but we do not take it on by choice. All here will lend you the wisdom of our experience, where you are uncertain, but the burden of command has been given to you."

"Even though lives may be lost because of what experience I yet lack?" I demanded, struggling none too successfully to hide my rising panic.

"Lives will be lost regardless," he said. "And it is not experience we need, in such a chase as this. Only time-and faith. We had little enough hope of surviving when we left Sarn, and less when we came here. It was not Engroth's experience that got us this far, but rather the belief we all had in him. They might have followed Caran with the same belief, had he lived, but now both are fallen there is only one other who could always rally us when all hope was lost. That was your father."

"I am not my father," I said. "I never knew my father's name until a year ago. To me he is no more than a legend, and I-I am only too human." I shook my head. "I cannot do this."

"That is what I am trying to tell you," he said. "It matters not what you can do-only what is your duty."

I stared at him. He said nothing more, only clasped my shoulder briefly, then turned and walked away toward the others.

It matters not what you can do . . . I clasped the hilt of my sword nervously, glancing left and right at the Rangers as they stood, uncertain, leaderless. The chief I had feared, on his knees and motionless as stone, whatever iron will had kept him moving without rest or sleep now gone. The faces of the slain women and children, partly covered in snow. And somewhere, to the south, more who would die unless somehow I, Estel of Imladris, Aragorn son of Arathorn, could produce a miracle.

It was not a task to which I felt at all equal.

Let me rephrase that-I was absolutely terrified.

I straightened, unwrapping my fingers slowly from my swordhilt and pulling my cloak tighter around me. The first thing we had to do was clear-get away from this place and find the survivors. I walked slowly toward the others. Now, to get their attention.

"Rangers!" I hoped desperately that I sounded commanding and sure, instead of simply ridiculous. They all looked up at my voice, and they were all silent. "There may be some of this camp who live yet. We go to follow their trail now, as swiftly as we may." I gestured away toward the pines where we had seen the tracks.

I was afraid they would not listen to me, that they would laugh at the idea of me in command. But somehow it was even more frightening to see them all move to obey, as though it were perfectly natural that I should give orders. Within minutes, they were standing in a rough line, packs shouldered, hoods up. All except for Engroth, and Halforth.

Coming to stand beside them, I saw Engroth had not moved. Halforth knelt beside him now, talking to him softly, a hand on his arm. He didn't look aware of either of us, and I wondered if we could even get him to come with us-and what we would do if we couldn't. I was not about to leave him . . .

Caran's words echoed in my mind again. A day will come when you must leave a comrade to die, when there will not be time or means to save him . . . But for the first time, Engroth looked at Halforth, standing slowly, one hand gripping Halforth's arm hard. Without speaking, he walked over to the fallen pine, retrieved his sword, and sheathed it. Then he moved to take a place at the back of the line.

His eyes met mine briefly as he passed me, and I flinched from his gaze. There was nothing behind those eyes, nothing at all.

"We're leaving," I told Halforth softly, as we both watched him. "I will need your help to track them."

His expression was blank, as if he had no memory of our conversation. "Yes, my lord."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

It was almost midnight, two days after I assumed command. We were passing through a forest, snow underfoot muffling all sound. The trees to either side were gaunt and dead, broken and leafless branches stretching toward the cold stars as if in mute supplication. The air was eerily silent.

The sound of an arrow hitting dead wood is one few ever forget, having once heard it. Particularly when it hits inches from your head.

A solid thunk! was all the warning we got. I reacted an instant slower than the others, hearing the rasp of metal on leather, then out of nowhere a dark shape came hurtling at me, knocking me back against a tree, a whisper of cold steel at my throat.

I blinked, deciding that perhaps reaching for my sword was not the wisest move under the circumstances.

Expecting yellow eyes and filed teeth, I was surprised to see a pair of fierce dark brown eyes staring at me. Straight black hair framing a face half hidden by scarves, but unmistakably human.

“Declare yourselves!” my captor called, in a rough alto that carried a note of command. “We have you surrounded.”

I squinted again, not moving, still quite conscious of the blade pressed against my throat. Other shapes appeared from the trees, too far for me to see them clearly in the darkness, but we were indeed surrounded, and they were all armed.

For a long, tense moment, no one moved. Then Halforth spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Valerin?”

And the knife was gone, as she stepped back, turning sharply to stare. For an instant, so brief I thought perhaps I had imagined it, I saw her shoulders slump and some of the tension drain out of her. The next moment Halforth let his sword fall and seized her in his arms.

“Papa!”

The stillness was broken then, with a child’s shrill cry, and I turned just in time to see a little girl, who couldn’t have been more than three years old, hurling herself at Hirion, as more smaller figures jumped out of the bushes at the side of the path, young voices chattering excitedly.

We had found our survivors.

I let out a long breath of relief, leaning my head back against the tree, fighting the temptation to sit down and rest for just a little while.

The race, I knew, was just beginning.

We could hardly see one another’s faces in the moonlight, and for several minutes men, women, and children blundered about in the dark, calling out the names of their loved ones. I stood apart, silent, watching with a lump in my throat as families were reunited on that lonely forest track. Halforth and his wife didn’t move, just stood together, arms wrapped around each other, shutting out the world. Hirion held his daughter in one arm, while a flaxen-haired woman about my age sobbed quietly against his shoulder.

Of the company, less than half found family among the survivors. Some of the Rangers undoubtedly had left their wives and children in different settlements, and many husbands and fathers were away with other companies. There were grave tidings given this night, of warriors slain at Tharbad, and more than one among us who learned his wife or his child had already fallen to the orcs.

And there were the orphaned children, going from one warrior to the next, peering up hopefully at our faces, looking for their fathers. Many of them, I thought with a sick flash of understanding, had watched their mothers cut down by orcs. I shivered. They were all so young. Not one seemed to be older than twelve.

“We cannot tarry here.” I overheard Halforth’s whisper as he drew his wife away from the rest, toward me. Another woman followed them, sheathing a sword as she came to stand with us. “We turned the raiders aside east of Sarn Ford, but they pursue us now.”

“Where is Engroth?” the second woman asked, looking around. Her long hair glinted silver in the moonlight, and there were creases at the corners of her eyes, but she held herself even as the warriors did. “Who is in command of this company?”

“Engroth is here, Dunwyn,” Halforth said quietly, glancing to my left, and I realized with a start that our former captain stood only a few feet from me, leaning against a tree and staring into the darkness. If he heard a word they said, he made no sign. “But we are commanded by Aragorn, son of Arathorn.”

Dunwyn turned sharply, noticing me for the first time. She glanced swiftly from me to Engroth and back, her eyes widening a little. “Aye,” she whispered, reaching out and touching my shoulder briefly. “You have the look of your mother, my lord.”

I blinked, unsure how to respond. Many, in the last few weeks, had remarked how much I resembled my father, but until now none had mentioned my mother. I tried to imagine her with a blanket roll and a sword under her winter cloak, standing on this forest track with these women of the Dúnedain, and failed.

Valerin gave me one glance and turned back to Halforth, speaking softly. “What of Halbarad? Last word we had, he was at Tharbad—“

“He is safe and well, far west of here,” he said, clasping both her hands in his. “He was at Tharbad, and he fought bravely.” He said nothing else, but his face was grave, and she searched his eyes long as if she suspected he had not told her everything.

“How far is it to the Ford?” I asked.

Halforth looked up after a moment. “Four days, perhaps five,” he said. “We must make haste.”

“What of Lord Elrond?” Beregir appeared at my shoulder. I hadn’t heard him approach. “If we can alert him, perhaps the Elves will send aid.”

“The chances are slim any of us could make it to Amon Sûl before we reach Bruinen,” Halforth told him. “It would be five days’ journey from here.”

“We are not far from Archet, my lord,” Beregir said, turning to me. I looked at Halforth, but his expression was unreadable. “We can get horses there, and rejoin the company in a day and a half if we ride hard.”

Halforth looked at Valerin, then at me. “My lord,” was all he said. In other words, it was my command, and my decision.

I had never seen Elrond flood Bruinen, but I had heard stories of it. Long had I believed he could do anything, and it would comfort me greatly to know he knew our peril and was ready to aid us. But I did not know the country between here and Amon Sûl, and the thought of ordering any man into unknown danger was not a pleasant one.

The women were moving at the edges of the path, speaking softly, herding the little ones close together so that none would stray into the forest. Those of the men who had family here had finished their greetings and now stood awaiting orders, after so short a space to rest. I drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly as I looked at Beregir.

Since I had met them, he and Hirion had been friends, advisors, helping me to understand the ways of the Rangers, and always ready with a joke to distract me from feeling too lost. It was a new feeling, to see him standing awaiting my order—a feeling I was liking less and less, as I grew accustomed to it.

“You and I will go?” I knew not what assistance I could offer, one instead of two against whatever lay between us and the Weather Hills, but something in me would not order him to do what I would not do myself.

He nodded, and only then did it occur to me that my uncertain, questioning tone was not that of a commander. I looked then at Halforth, but he made no objection aloud, merely watched me. This time it was an order, not a question. “You will command the company in my place, until I return.”

“Aye, my lord,” he said. “Valar guard your path, and return to us as swiftly as you may.” He clasped my arm briefly, then touched a hand to his heart in what I’d come to recognize as a Ranger salute. And as Beregir and I turned northward off the path, I thought I saw Engroth turn, watching after us. Or perhaps I only imagined it . . .

 

 

The sky had cleared partway by now, and we set our course straight north, jogging steadily through ankle-deep snow. Beregir did not speak as we stumbled along, making for the faint glow in the distance that was the town of Archet. Perhaps, like me, he was struggling to keep his eyes open. I could not think clearly enough to calculate how long we’d been awake now. I prayed that was the reason, and that whatever friendship might have grown between us had not been made too different, or awkward, when I assumed command.

Hoping to keep myself awake, I tried to strike up a conversation with what little breath I had left over. “Do all the women of the Dúnedain learn to use the sword?”

Beregir gave me a sharp look, as though surprised at my ignorance. “Only those who are raised by our people, my lord,” he replied. His voice was rough from weariness, but his stride did not falter. “Valerin and Dunwyn, and your own mother, could easily best me in a contest of arms, when I was but a few years younger.” I tried to picture my mother and Beregir crossing swords, and failed. “But not all of us marry within our own people. Hirion’s wife was born in Bree, and many others with that company also come from towns or farms in this country.”

I absorbed this in silence. A month ago I would have been quite taken aback at the idea of training women to fight. The events of the past few days, however, had graphically demonstrated the grim necessity of this, among many other Ranger ways that once were incomprehensible to me.

He didn’t say anything else, and after a few moments I asked, “Are there men in Archet, then, who will lend us horses?”

“I very much doubt it,” he said. The look he gave me was somewhere between surprise and amusement. “You have much to learn yet, my lord.”

“I wish you would speak plain,” I said. “Do we mean to steal horses, then?”

“You don’t have to say it thus,” he protested, and I had a strange feeling he was trying not to laugh.

I supposed I should be relieved he didn’t expect me to know everything because I was my father’s son. Still, I was not amused. “I thought the duty of the Rangers was to protect the people of Arnor, not to raid their towns like common horse thieves.”

“A lovely thought, my lord,” he said, and while his voice was light I sensed a bitter irony behind the words. “Perhaps if we were the knights of Gondor, living in cities with walls of stone—on a border with the finest horse breeders in Middle Earth—we could buy fine horses for all of us.” His eyes were serious. “But then, if we were the knights of Gondor, we would have money, for we would collect taxes from those who live on the land we protect. The people of Arnor give us nothing, save foul names and a less than savory reputation.”

The bitterness in his voice surprised me. “I meant no offense,” I said quietly.

“You have given none,” he said, after a moment. “But as I said—you have much to learn.”

I could think of nothing to say to that, so we went on in silence awhile, pristine snow crunching under our boots.

“If the orcs catch us,” he continued after a while, “do you think they will go back to their caves in the mountains? If we do not stop them at Imladris, they will take or kill all the horses in Archet, and the people as well, before they burn the village to the ground.

“I know not what the Elves told you of our people,” he said. “But to be a Ranger is to live a life of difficult compromises.” For a minute, in the faint predawn light, he looked a lot like Halforth. “To make the best of bad choices. The story of our people, since the fall of Arthedain, has always been one of having not quite enough to do far too much.”

It occurred to me to wonder how old he was. He looked hardly older than I, but then twenty years among the Elves had given me little skill in judging the ages of Men. Regardless of his youth, I knew, he had most likely fought his first battle when I was still learning how to aim a bow. Necessity, I was learning, is a swift teacher.

When he spoke again, he sounded very tired. “If we live, we will do what we can to return whatever we take tonight. Though it will make little difference to the people of Archet. They will never know for what purpose we took their horses, nor from what fate we saved them.”

 

 

It was almost dawn when we reached Archet. We stayed off the road, slipping into the city between two houses and moving quietly along the streets. There was a reddish glow off to the east, and we knew we didn’t have much time.

We found suitable horses in an inn yard, tied to a post. It was a fairly simple matter to unlatch the gate and slash the ropes. Mine was a rather scruffy-looking bay, and after a hard nudge produced no lump of sugar he went back to ignoring me until I vaulted lightly onto his back.

He gave a loud whinny at this, and I cast Beregir an alarmed glance, but he only mounted the other horse, bareback even as the Elves ride, and trotted down the still-sleeping street toward the edge of town. I set my heels to the bay’s flanks and followed, images flashing through my mind as the yard gate swung shut behind us. Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Arnor, locked up by the local magistrate and tried as a common horse thief. I could see it now—Halforth and Hirion would come, hearing the word from their Ranger spies, Halforth looking disapproving as he explained to the locals that I was a nice young man, really, and long-lost nobility at that, and we really had needed the horses. And Hirion would stand just behind him making faces at me, tut-tutting quietly in a way that said he’d never let me hear the end of this.

But, of course, if we were caught Halforth would never hear of it. We turned the corner, the inn no longer in sight, and held to a steady canter as we neared the last houses and the open downs. In all probability, the orcs would catch them and they would all be slain, like those women at the camp by the Greenway. I swallowed hard, tightening my legs against the horse’s flanks as he shied away from a barking dog at the side of the road. There would be time to think of them later—now I had none to spare from our errand.

It felt strange to be riding again, after days of running on foot. I could feel the muscles in my legs growing stiff, and knew I would be in pain come nightfall. Right now all I felt was cold, and aching exhaustion in every part of my body. It was an effort just to sit straight on the back of the horse.

Beregir looked back at me, slowing his horse a little so mine could catch up. “My lord, are you all right?”

In the growing light he looked haggard, his face pale and smudged with dirt, snowflakes caught in his dark hair. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what I looked like. “Aye,” I answered softly, stifling a yawn.

“We shall have to stop at some point, and rest the horses,” he said, patting his mount’s neck absently. “There will be some little time for us to sleep, ere we return.”

I only nodded at this, pulling my heavy cloak tighter around me. “Don’t worry about me,” I said finally, my lips numb and wooden in the cold. “I do not think I could sleep now, anyway, even if we stopped.”

He gave me a long look, concern giving way to understanding. “I know,” he said quietly. “But sleep will come, in spite of all that you feel now. Even a Ranger cannot stay awake forever.” Of a sudden he looked much older, graver, and he reached out to grip my arm briefly.

 

 

We met no resistance on our way north, save from the freezing wind tearing down off the Weather Hills. Even the snow had stopped falling, and once we left the town we left the road and cut straight across the downs at a gallop. It was nearly sundown when we came to the foot of Amon Sûl,

The Tower of the Winds, it was called once. I could well believe it, hearing how the frigid gusts moaned through the cracks in the broken stonework. We tied the horses near the foot of the hill, climbing the slope on foot, tripping over rocks hidden beneath the snow. A ring of stone, the old foundation, crowned the top of the hill. I could see nothing nearby with which we could start a fire.

Beregir, however, had been here before and knew what to look for. In a little hollow just below the crest of the hill, he brushed snow away to reveal a layer of wooden planks.

Beneath these, in a cleverly-hidden cave hollowed into the side of the hill, were stacks of logs, each coated in pitch and perfectly dry, together with smaller branches and a few bales of straw. These we lifted, a few at a time, carrying armloads of fuel up the hill and laying them in a pile at the stone circle.

By the time we’d brought it all out, the fierce ache in my arms had ceased, numbed by the cold and the wind, and the sun had almost set. My legs felt like wood, and my vision had narrowed to exclude everything not directly in front of me.

Beregir was kneeling at the edge of the stone circle with flint and tinder, and after a few minutes a glow illuminated his face, as sparks caught in the straw. He stood back, watching as the flames spread quickly, licking at the black pitch and throwing more sparks into the air. For a long moment we stood there, too exhausted even to walk a short distance to find a flat place to sleep.

The fire had spread to fill the stone circle now, crackling hungrily, a sound I hadn’t heard in far too long. The last few nights the company had lit no fire, even when we had had time to sleep, and to hear the noise of the blaze brought memories of Imladris again for the first time in more than a day. If I closed my eyes, I could almost pretend I’d just come from a day of exploring and snowball fights with Elladan and Elrohir, sitting in the Hall of Fire and sipping hot cider and miruvor with my mother and Elrond.

The wind shifted then, and I opened my eyes, taking a deep breath of hot air that smelled of smoke. I could feel the warmth against my face, my cheeks tingling at the return of sensation. Beregir placed a hand on my shoulder.

“Come,” he said. “We should go upwind.” And so we stumbled around to the other side of the circle, sitting down a ways away from the fire and leaning against a slab of cracked stone.

I could see his face quite clearly in the firelight, even though the sun had sunk behind the Blue Mountains far to the west. “Will they see it in Imladris?”

He nodded once. “Aye,” he whispered. “We have some time yet, and the horses cannot keep such a pace as we have ridden them, without rest. Nor can we. Sleep now, and I will watch.”

 

 

By the positions of the stars, it was some three hours before he woke me.

To my surprise, I was able to fall asleep barely a second after my eyes closed. Even in sleep, though, I found little peace. I remember little of what I dreamed that night, but some images lingered in my mind long after I woke—kneeling in the snow at the ruined campsite, the pale faces of those women wavering before my sight, until I was not looking at strangers, their faces changing to those of Arwen and my mother, white and cold and lifeless.

When Beregir shook me awake, I felt hardly rested, but the air was definitely warmer. I turned around to see the top of the hill alive with flames, reaching high with no sign of abating, a thick column of black smoke rising into the air, bent away from us by the wind. The crackling was louder now, and I could smell the burning pitch.

“Lord Elrond knows we are coming,” he whispered. I only nodded, and he said no more, leaning his head back against the rock and closing his eyes. I turned around, watching the smoke blowing away to the east, staring at the heart of the blaze and struggling to focus my mind. Three hours he had let me sleep, and in three more it would be after midnight.

I got up, stretching stiffly, wincing as strained and aching muscles made their presence felt, where before I had been too numb from cold to feel any pain. Walking around to the other side of the hill, I made my way back to cave where the logs were stored, adding more fuel to the fire before sitting down next to Beregir to keep watch. His face looked relaxed and strangely vulnerable, his eyes closed, firelight flickering across his bruised face. I leaned back and reached into my pack, pulling out my pipe and lighting it. The smell of pipeweed was inexplicably comforting, and I breathed in, blowing smoke at the sky. I wondered if Elrond thought of me when he saw the beacon, if he worried about me. I wondered if my mother knew yet. Would Arwen think of me, and wonder if I was all right?

I looked up, at the Evening Star twinkling above the horizon, through a haze of smoke, and tried to picture her face in my mind, glowing, radiant, alive. But somehow all I could see was the vision from my dreams, white skin against white snow, her clear gray eyes cloudy in death.

 

 

By the time we left, we’d both gotten comfortably warm. It was hard, all the same, sitting awake and idle for three hours, thinking of the others of our company struggling onward on foot southeast of us. I wondered if they could see the light of our beacon from where they were, and if they looked on it as a sign of hope.

It was an hour after midnight when I woke Beregir. The beacon fire was not as bright now as it had been, and the haze of smoke now obscured all but the brightest stars in the sky. We threw snow over the flames, our eyes stinging from the smoke, until there was only smoldering ash. Then we filled our water skins at a small spring by the side of the hill, gulped a few mouthfuls of cram, and mounted our horses to head back to the others.

The pleasant warmth of the hilltop was soon gone, and our clothes were damp from lying on melted snow. We rode hard, as swiftly as the horses would carry us, the wind in our faces cold and merciless. There was no way to be sure how far the company had traveled, in the time we were gone, so we set our course southeast until we came across the others, or their trail. The horses had been pushed nearly to the limit yesterday, and we both knew they wouldn’t be able to keep to the same pace today, but still we pressed them as hard as they would go.

It was drawing toward evening when we crossed the trail of the company. It was at least half a day old, and there were no orc-tracks in sight. The tracks led into a forest, along a narrow path that twisted through the trees. There were only pine trees here, thick needle-laden branches blocking the last of the sun’s light, and brushing against us as we pushed our horses onward. No snow had reached the ground under these trees, and the carpet of dead needles muffled the sound of hooves.

It was dark by the time we caught up with them, and we halted immediately when we heard Halforth’s shouted challenge.

“Identify yourselves!”

“’Tis only us—we have returned!” I called back, swinging down from the horse and clasping his arm.

“Praise the Valar!” Looking around, I could see the company had stopped to rest for a while. All but Halforth and Engroth had been sleeping until we arrived, and now we were known to be friendly the rest of them were quickly returning to their blankets to catch what sleep they would be allowed.

Halforth, it seemed, was on watch this hour. What dark thoughts passed through Engroth’s mind none knew, but he looked once at me as we approached, then turned away.

Beregir tied up the horses, then wasted no time in finding a spot to lie down. I turned to Halforth. “How fares the company?”

“All who were with us when you left us live yet,” he said simply, “and we have made good time, as good as can be expected.” I nodded, stifling a yawn. “Tomorrow we will move swifter, and the little ones can take turns riding the horses.” He turned half away from me, watching the sleeping figures lying in a rough circle behind him. “Sleep while you may, my lord. We can ill afford to stay here much longer.”

I intended to take his advice, giving my horse a pat and moving stiffly toward a clear patch of snow at the edge of the camp, when another voice spoke behind me.

“My lord.”

I froze, turning slowly round, suddenly fully awake. I could see little of Engroth’s face, only his eyes glittering in the darkness. “Captain,” I said, nodding once respectfully.

“That title is yours now,” he said curtly. I frowned, forcing myself to look into his eyes, still feeling like an untried youngster before him even now. His face might have been carved in granite, for all the expression he showed, but for the first time in days he seemed to see me, to focus on me. For a long moment he did not speak, and I felt a chill run through me, that had nothing to do with the wind.

“We will not reach the Ford, at this pace,” he said bluntly. I drew a sharp breath, let it out slowly, wishing I could see what his thoughts were. “We will not reach the Last Bridge, even, unless the orcs can be delayed.”

His voice was rough, but what emotion lay beneath his words I could not tell. “And how would you suggest we delay them?”

“Let me take half our company.” In the faint light from the north, his expression had not changed, but of a sudden I thought he looked different, almost fey. “We cannot hold them long, but perhaps it will be long enough.”

“No.” The answer was automatic, before I even had time to think. Something flickered deep in his eyes, and I stared at him. I knew, without being told, that any men I ordered to stay behind and hold the orcs would never see the safety of Imladris. I would be ordering them to die.

I shivered, remembering Caran’s words again. Would that he were here now, to make such choices as this!

One day you will have to sacrifice some so that others may live, or so that a mission may not fail.

“We are Rangers, my lord,” he said, and his voice was hollow. “We are all of us prepared to die, and we are not afraid.”

I fear it will be harder for you than for others, for you were not raised in our ways.

I shook my head. Not now. Not this way. It was one thing to contemplate leaving one man who was already sorely wounded, to save ten times that number. But this . . . I could not do it. It was not in me, even to consider it. I could not choose half the men from among the company, who would live and who would die. Whose husband, and whose father . . . I could not do this, and look into the faces of their wives and children. “No,” I said again, softer this time. “We stay together, stand or fall together.”

We are all of us prepared to die . . . His words reminded me suddenly of Halbarad. I could almost see the younger man’s face again, fear and pride and fierce determination reflected in his wide eyes. But Halbarad’s eyes could never hold the look of total despair that flashed across Engroth’s face then. It was only there for an instant, but it was long enough.

And I knew he, at least, did not fear death. Here was one, I could see, who welcomed it, who would rush with open arms to his own destruction. What lay behind the hidden torment in his eyes I knew not, but whatever shadow lay upon him made life itself a burden he no longer wished to bear. And of a sudden I was ashamed, for all the times I had wished to be free of this duty, to be elsewhere, to have my destiny be other than what it was. Whatever this man had seen and done in his lifetime, he was driven by demons the like of which I had never known.

Perhaps he would have done it, had he retained command of the company. If Caran’s words were anything to go by, such necessities were only too common in war in the Wild. Doubtless Engroth had made such decisions before, seen men die by his orders so that others might live.

But I could not. I do not know what gave me hope that we could make it, that we could all make it. I do not know what made me believe such a sacrifice would not be necessary, or if I merely convinced myself that because I wished it, it would be so. But I turned away from him then, unable to gaze longer into the eyes of a man I knew was already half dead.

I knew I should sleep. We would move swiftly in only a few hours, and I could not afford to waste time I could spend resting. But Halforth was standing alone on watch, and I might never have another chance to speak to him alone. And there were things I had to ask him.

If I was to command the Dúnedain of the North, I would have to rely heavily on the experience of those men who had fought long before I was born, those men who knew the land and the people and the strategies of the Rangers. If he had taken command of the Dúnedain after my father’s death, Engroth must have been among the greatest of the warriors of that generation. I would sorely need his counsel in the years ahead . . . assuming we survived to reach Imladris.

But I knew nothing of his state of mind, only that he wished for nothing save his own death. And he would not come within fifty feet of me, save to ask me to send him on a mission he would not survive. As fiercely as he (and all the other older Rangers) guarded his secrets, I could not even attempt to enlist his support without knowing what had driven him to this pass.

And Halforth might be the only one who would tell me.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aragorn's life and experiences upon being reunited with the Rangers of the North. Aragorn, Halbarad and original characters.

All the others were sleeping now, save for Halforth and Engroth and I. The tall evergreens were less thickly crowded here, and silver shafts of moonlight stole between the treetops, casting a soft glow over the camp and creating a deceptive air of peace. Here and there under trees, the women of our party lay on the ground, children huddled close by them seeking warmth and the faint illusion of security. In a rough ring around these, the warriors slept rolled in their cloaks, all with swords in easy reach.

Halforth didn’t seem surprised to see me, when I approached. He only sighed, glancing once at me before turning back to watch the dark shapes of the trees before us, waiting for me to speak.

“Engroth spoke to me just now.” Which was of course obvious to him, for he had no doubt witnessed our conversation, even if he had not heard all. But I could think of no better beginning.

Halforth nodded. “Aye,” he said, still without looking at me. “I know what he asked you, for he spoke of it to me also.”

I turned around, looking toward the other side of the camp where Engroth stood against a tree, motionless as the stone kings who stood guard on the downs at Fornost. When, I wondered, had he last slept? Or had he fought in the Wild so long that he could sleep while still standing? “And what did you say?”

“I said the decision was not mine to make, and that you would answer him when you returned.”

In his voice there was no hint of his own thoughts, whether he would have agreed with Engroth, if it were up to him. I did not ask, for I feared to hear his answer.

“If I had given him the men he asked for . . .” I hesitated. “Could he lead them, now, and hold our retreat?”

“Had I not seen what they have done, I could almost pity the orc who crosses Engroth now,” he said, and his voice was dry. “If he leads our rearguard, you may be sure that many orcs will die. He will buy us twice as much time as any guard of the same number and led by another, on the same ground. Still, none of those who make a stand here will live to see Imladris . . . and only the Valar can say if the rest of us would make it.”

“I know,” I said quietly, and he looked at me for the first time, his face somber.

“Aye,” he said. “And he knows it, too.”

“There is but a slim chance any of us will live, no matter what we do,” I said, “and so he chooses the course of action that will lead swiftest to his own death.”

Halforth looked down for a moment, and when he looked up again I sensed a vast weariness in him, though his expression had not changed. “Aye.”

I closed my eyes, then forced them open again with an effort. It was difficult simply to think, when cold and fatigue numbed my mind, and I hardly knew even what questions I should ask of him. More than anything I wished I might leave this task to another, let Halforth decide what course we should take, lay my head upon the snow and go to sleep.

“My lord, you ask me to read the heart of another, and I fear I cannot.” His voice was tired, and he looked away, staring straight ahead. “I have fought beside Engroth many more years than you have been alive, and I know something of the wounds he has borne, but I cannot tell you what he suffers now, and if he will ever recover. Nor can I tell you if it is wise, to accept his counsel now.” He turned to me then, and I was surprised at the depth of the sorrow in his eyes. “I can only say that for three score years he was one of the greatest warriors we had. In a large part, ‘twas his strength, and the faith we all had in him, that held us together after your father died. But I also know that there are some wounds that do not heal.”

“Still, you know more of him than I,” I said. “And I can hardly know what weight to give his counsel, unless I know why he seeks death now.”

There was no sound, save for the soft rustling of evergreen needles in the wind. Halforth looked down at his hands, and I resisted the urge to apologize, to say it was none of my affair.

“It is because of me,” I said abruptly, folding my arms as against a sudden chill. “You said before . . .” He turned to look at me sharply. “. . . my presence brings back memories. Of events he would forget. This would not have happened, had I not come here.”

“My lord . . .” He stopped, obviously disturbed. I had the impression he was choosing his words carefully. “You have done only what duty and honor dictated, nothing more,” he said finally, formally. “There are none here who fault you for that. For good or ill, you belong here, with your own kin.”

If he only knew how little duty and honor, or love for my own kin, had had to do with my decision to come here! I turned away so that he would not see the flash of self-disgust in my face. He did not know that Elrond would have had me stay a few years yet in Imladris, before he learned of my love for his daughter. Nor did he know how I left Elrond’s house but a day after, out of frustrated love and wounded pride. I thought only of my own pain then, and fleeing from the reminder of all that I could never have.

I did not belong here, in command of this company, and I feared I could lead them nowhere but to our deaths.

“If I had not come here,” I said slowly, still without facing him, “Engroth would still be in command. It was my presence reopened these old wounds you speak of. Without me, he would have found a way to save you all.”

I heard him take a deep breath, letting it out slowly before he spoke. “If you had not come here when you did,” he said, very softly, “my son would be dead.”

His eyes fixed on me were very bright, but his voice was steady when he went on. “Engroth would never speak of his own thoughts, unless it were a matter of concern to us all. Not since—“ He stopped, turning around to look for our former captain. Engroth stood still at the other edge of the camp, but all the same Halforth lowered his voice. “I know not what effect your presence has had on him. But some things cannot be predicted, in this life, and sometimes no one is truly to blame.”

I swallowed hard, rubbing my hands together in a futile attempt to warm them. I could no longer feel my fingers. “He knew my father.”

It was not much of a guess. He had never known me, so it must be my father I reminded him of.

Halforth froze, then nodded slowly. “Aye,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Knew him better than any of us, I think. ‘Twas your father convinced him to come back North, to his own people, when they were both hardly older than you are now.”

A branch swayed near me, soft needles brushing my face, but I didn’t move. He walked a few steps away, to lean against the trunk of the tree. “Life in the Wild is hard, but to Engroth it has been crueler than to most of us. Even I do not know the full tale—only what the older Rangers told me, when your father was still alive.” He hesitated, and I waited, wide awake for the first time in days, and—I could not help it—curious.

“Orcs burned his village to the ground when he was barely ten years old. He was the only one who survived, and somehow he made his way south across Bruinen and into Dunland. ‘Twas ten years later when your father found him, living on the streets in a town not far from the Gap of Rohan.

“I do not know what Arathorn was doing so far south. Most likely gathering information. And if I know him, he was ordered to wait for reinforcements, but for some reason he decided to go in alone. There were many, in those days, who called him rash. But whatever his reasons, he did whatever it was he set out to do. And when he returned to Fornost Engroth was with him.”

His eyes met mine then, but I knew he wasn’t seeing me at all. “I was too young to fight with the Rangers then, but I know Engroth had not wished to return, and it took him some time to adjust to life among us. He was a formidable warrior even then, though more deadly with his hands than with a bow, but for nearly a year he would speak to none but Arathorn.”

“Why would he not wish to return?” I asked.

“You must understand, my lord,” he said, “he was very young when he left us. His strongest memories of the Dúnedain, I do not doubt, were of his home in flames and his family slain by orcs. Since that day he had to survive alone, in a foreign land traditionally hostile to our kind. After such a life, I am only surprised he trusted Arathorn enough to follow him back North.”

“Why did he?”

“No one knows, but I heard from my father and several others that neither would have left Dunland alive, if not for the other. Of what befell them, and how they escaped, there are many tales, but most are only hearsay. Arathorn, in after years, would say only that he did some very foolish things on that mission, and that Engroth saved his life. And Engroth never spoke of that time at all, to my knowledge.”

I almost thought I saw his lips quirk in a half-smile, but the expression never reached his eyes. “You never saw two men less alike. Arathorn was loved by all, even then. There was never a man more open, more generous, more kind. He was such a one as could lift men’s spirits in the darkest hour. He loved to laugh. He loved to sing. He was more than the chieftain’s son, in those days, and he was more than a chieftain to us. He was our friend.”

He looked up, and when the moonlight fell across his face there was a look there I had never seen before. There was weariness there, and sorrow, but I saw also a calm sort of pride, like a candle burning strong and clear through a snowstorm. I was reminded of his son, and a long night on the road to Sarn. And at the same time, there was the sudden feeling of looking at something I was only beginning to understand.

“I do not believe Engroth ever had any close friends, other than your father. He spoke little to any other, except when it was necessary. He was swift to anger, and often reckless, or so Arador said. But he was never one to speak of what was in his heart, for as long as he has been with us.

“Still, they were closer than brothers. He was with us for forty years before your father died, and in that time you rarely saw one without the other. In battle they always stood back to back, and none could stand against them. They both took great risks, and more often than not they succeeded. And all of us who stood with them in battle believed, as they did, that we could never be ultimately defeated.”

I shivered, remembering my first battle with the Rangers, the look Engroth had given me afterwards. And the faces of all the others old enough to remember my father . . .

“So that is why he hates me?” I asked, almost to myself. “Because I remind him of my father, but I am not the man Arathorn was—because I have come to take the place of his friend, and I am not worthy of it?”

Halforth shook his head sharply. “Nay, my lord!” he said swiftly. “’Tis not like that. ‘Tis not like that at all.” His voice dropped. “He does not hate you.”

“But—when I first arrived, at Fornost—?”

“It is not you he hates,” he said quietly. “It is himself.” I frowned, confused. “For living still, when your father is dead. And when you came to us from Imladris, dressed even as the Elves and knowing nothing of our ways . . .” He trailed off. “He does not see this as any failure of yours,” he went on. “Rather, he sees it as his failure, that he could not convince your mother to stay among her own people, so that his friend’s son would be raised by his own kin.”

Engroth has his own feud with the Elves that I am not old enough to remember, and none of the older warriors will tell me what is the reason. Hirion’s words echoed in my head. A feud strong enough that he would rather his best friend’s son be raised in the Wild, than in the safety of Imladris? Or could he possibly believe that Elrond and his family would wish me ill? “But why? Why would he hate the Elves so much?”

Halforth was silent for a while, and when he spoke I had to strain to hear him. “Did Lord Elrond ever tell you,” he asked slowly, “how your father died?”

I felt something deep inside me turn cold at those words. “He said only that he was slain by orcs.”

“Aye,” he said shortly. “’Tis true enough.” He turned then, looking back toward Engroth, but our former captain had not moved. “There are many versions of the tale,” he went on. “And Engroth’s does not show the Elves in a fair light.

“Your father was fostered in Imladris, even as you were,” he said, and I blinked, surprised. This I had never known. “Although at that time some of our people lived in the Angle between Mitheithel and Bruinen, and he knew his father and his lineage from the time he was a child. But he also counted the sons of Elrond as friends, from the time he was very young.”

I nodded, remembering good times shared with Elladan and Elrohir throughout my own childhood. They had never told me anything of my father, or what he was like as a child.

I wondered if he had known Arwen, when he was young.

“The Lords Elladan and Elrohir fought often against the orcs of the Misty Mountains, in vengeance for the fate of the Lady Celebrían, their mother. Many times they would seek out their enemies in their mountain caverns, and raid their sanctuaries. And if he was in Imladris when they set out, your father would often go with them.”

His eyes were haunted. “None of us thought this wise. The duty of the Dúnedain is difficult enough, merely to protect Eriador against incursions from the east, without taking the fight into the mountains themselves. But even Arador never tried to dissuade him. Only Engroth ever spoke to him of it, and argued many times that our future chieftain should not risk himself so in raids of little or no strategic importance, to avenge a wrong that happened over four hundred years ago.”

I had never thought of it thus, in Imladris. Elladan and Elrohir were my brothers, and the first time I had accompanied them in battle in the mountains, it had never occurred to me to question the strategic merits of such a raid. And if my father had indeed grown up with them as I had, I could understand why he would do as he had done.

What had Arathorn thought, when his closest friend advised him that his duty to his people should come before his love for his foster-brothers? Had my father ever wished, as I had, that his ancestry had been other than what it was, so that he might be free to risk his life for whatever venture he chose?

“This did not stop him from going with Arathorn, wherever he went. He was the one your father trusted most, and they were stationed at the same guard posts for most of the time Arador was chieftain. There were few battles of any significance that either fought in, when the other was not at his side.”

For the first time since I met him, I heard Halforth’s voice break, and he had to stop. Both his hands were clenched at his sides. “Ever since Arador died, your father had wanted Engroth to take command of one of the posts. He said there was no one he trusted more, in such a position of authority. But Engroth wanted to stay near him, and so at first he refused. It was not until three years after Arathorn became chieftain, that Engroth first took command of the guard at Tharbad. Four weeks later, Arathorn went into the mountains with the sons of Elrond. He did not return.”

There was a part of me that feared to hear the rest of his tale. Still, I had to ask him, “What happened?”

“I was at Tharbad the next day, when word came, and I watched Engroth ride away not ten minutes after the messenger arrived. The Elves told him that they were set upon by a force far larger than they had expected. Arathorn was slain, his eye pierced by an arrow, but his body was never found. Engroth was convinced he was a prisoner, and wanted to go after him immediately, but the Lords Elladan and Elrohir thought it wiser to wait until more warriors could arrive from Imladris. So he left their camp and went into the caverns alone.”

There were tears shining in his eyes now, and he made no attempt to hide them. “It was four days later when we attacked, all the guard from Tharbad and some more of the Elves, as well. We found Engroth sorely hurt in one of the lower caverns, after a fierce fight, but of Arathorn there was no sign, though we searched for days.

“Engroth lay in a fever for nigh onto a week, and afterwards he would say nothing of what happened to him in the mountains, nor how he came by his wounds. He would say only that our chief was dead.

“He believes,” he said gruffly, “that the Elves led your father to his death. And he blames himself, as much as the sons of Elrond, for not being at his side in that last battle.” He shook his head slowly, looking through me at some scene long past. “We all of us mourned Arathorn, and we still do. Engroth held us together after he died, would not let our grief sway us from our duty, even though of all of us he bore the greatest pain. But he was never the same.”

He reached out and gripped my shoulder, and I could feel his hand shaking. His eyes were distant, but slowly he seemed to focus, seeing me once more, instead of the chieftain he had loved. “’Twas nothing you did,” he said softly. “He has led us bravely and well these eighteen years, with no thought for himself, for the sake of your father’s memory. But some wounds do not heal, and all such sacrifices must be paid for. The only question is—when?” He squeezed my shoulder once, then let his hand fall, straightening as with an effort. “Go now, and sleep, my lord. We must move swiftly before dawn.”

 


End file.
